


Blues in the Night

by compo67



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Big Bang Challenge, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Bottom Jared, Community: spn_j2_bigbang, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Description, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kidnapping, M/M, Marking, Military Backstory, Minor Character Death, No Major Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Song Lyrics, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge 2017, Top Jensen, Torture, Vampire Jensen, Vampire Sex, Vampires, War, World War II, sex worker Jared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 08:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 33,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11482299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: The search for a missing elder leads Jensen to Los Angeles, California. It is his responsibility to question contacts and connections about Tyman, who has not been heard from or seen in a year.Frustrated with the search, Jensen meets a human who claims to have had a casual relationship with Tyman. Jared trades information for two pastrami sandwiches and ten thousand dollars. Unfortunately, after the trade, Jensen is no closer to finding Tyman, and a lot closer to Jared than he ever thought possible.[Spn_J2 Big Bang 2017]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big Bang 2017: Artist the wonderful BeeLikeJ.
> 
> Betas: mcdanno28, rieracelin, and G.

 

 

 

 

 

Jensen pouts in London.

He pouted in Paris. And Milan. And Tokyo. And Dubai. And New York City.

The pout remains fixed on his face throughout his appointment at Lock & Co. He can’t even enjoy a new hat from the city’s oldest and best hat maker. William went with a fedora this time, as Jensen had a trilby made on his last visit. Typically, William’s professional demeanor calms Jensen down.

“Should’ve gotten a Panama hat,” Chel mutters from her perch on a cushioned guest lounge. “That one looks the same as all your others.”

William reacts in his own, British way with a harrumph and cold silence.

“Let Master work.” Margo’s deep Russian accent breaks in for the first time since they entered the shop an hour ago. Her commanding cerulean eyes pierce the soft lighting in the fitting room. “You make hats often?”

Not one for words, William nods.

Margo nods in return. She's not one for lengthy responses either. They’ve reached an introvert's understanding.

Chel rolls her eyes and continues to try on the samples on display. There had only been three out in the beginning, but as time went on, William’s patience had started to wear thin. He fished out a few additional hats and left them on the lounge. Chel keeps going back to a millinery hat--classic in design, pink in color, with an intricate, exquisite black band.

Jensen owns a similar piece in robin’s egg blue.

This fedora was an impulse item, spurred by a desire to cheer himself up. He placed the order for it while still in Dubai. There is no shortage of fine tailors and hat makers in Dubai, but Jensen made a solemn oath. He is a lifetime customer of Lock & Co. Hatters. His lifetime might exceed that of the majority of Lock & Co.’s clientele, but all the better for their business.

These are not just any high-end hats. They are celebrated items of fashion and functionality. From bold leather-trimmed helmets to gorgeous embroidered velvet caps, there is a hat for every occasion. William translates his talent into timeless masterpieces. No one in the world can rival his expertise. Jensen pays him handsomely for the time and the privilege to sit after hours.

Without conversation, Jensen focuses on William’s hands. Eighty-five years of human life show themselves in those hands. Jensen looks down at his own. Seventy-three years of immortal life hide underneath twenty-six years of human life.

His hands will never know a single wrinkle. Not one age spot, not the slightest thinning of skin.

He had wanted that for Eustice.

“Sir,” William announces, as he has for the past sixty years of their acquaintance. “Your hat is ready.”

Jensen pays William’s rent for the next six months, plus the cost of the hat. He was going to do three, but it is an excellent hat.

Outside, Jensen’s pout diminishes. Margo carries the hat box and Chel whines about London. She was made for warmer climates--for lush, humid nights in Cuba, Puerto Rico, or the Dominican Republic.

“Then go,” Jensen murmurs, tilting his hat. He winks at Chel. “I’m not stopping you.”

Mischief burns in Chel’s eyes. “And leave you here? Looking like that? I don’t think so.”

The unmatched reputation for service and quality does not go unappreciated by their party. St. James’s district offers itself up to their wallets and amusement.  Numerous clubs, restaurants, and shops stay open early into the morning to assuage the heartbroken and the bored.

It’s all about knowing where to look.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

They have actual business in London.

All of it can be done in the intimate setting of late night cafe culture. Right out in the open, Jensen, Margo, and Chel ask carefully worded questions. No need to raise alarm. No need to attract too much attention. Jensen receives compliments on his hat and graciously returns them.

It is difficult for their trio to remain inconspicuous. The tallest of their group, Margo stands at six foot five, taller still in different boots. She wears her blonde hair in a single, tight braid, and stays close to the exit inside any establishment. Her voice, when heard below the chatter of a third glass of wine, resonates deep and rich. Jensen enjoys the way she asks questions--crafted yet direct. 

Chel remains the shortest member at a robust five foot three. Her attempts to wear heels and disguise her height often fail.  Most nights, that does not keep her from trying. Though tonight, conversing among casual acquaintances in St. James’s, she chose a pair of nude flats. 

Jensen has never grown to be taller than six foot one. He never will, though the hats help elevate his stature. 

His new hat accompanies him to The Red Lion. 

This isn’t his preferred pub. But of all the pubs in London, this one happens to be on Oscar’s grand tour. Oscar will inevitably find his way home, a little worse for wear, but satisfied in having completed yet another nightly romp through at least twenty pubs. The Red Lion suits him. He sits in a small booth looking impeccably English, aged as fine as the wooden paneling on the walls. The English take care of their pubs. 

Reputedly the second oldest licenced business in the West End, The Red Lion prides itself on maintaining the archetype of an old man’s pub. Jensen walks past stained windows, stained glass above the bar, and groups of men who look exactly like Oscar and enjoy being there as much as he does. 

Oscar’s surprise at Jensen’s request to join him seems genuine. 

“Not too many young ones venture here, I daresay,” he tuts and orders a pint for Jensen. 

“I was told to find you here. Thank you.” 

“Nell, my love, this young man is a dear friend.” Oscar introduces Jensen to the bartender, a woman in her sixties. “He’s come to share a pint with me.”

Nell eyes Jensen, protective of her customer, and nods. “Nice of ‘im. Drink up.” 

Jensen drinks enough of the pint to convey respect. It provides Oscar an opportunity to talk, which places them both more at ease with each other. Maybe they should be closer, more familiar, but that has never been their relationship. Linked together by common blood, their similarities end there. Animosity does not stand between them--only a distant indifference brought on by the contrast between their ages and personalities. 

They share a Maker and not much else.

“Have you passed through The Rivoli?” Oscar finishes the pint he’d been working on. 

“That is my next stop.” 

“Do you need directions?”

“No.” Jensen smiles. “I thank you for the offer.”

“I forget,” Oscar murmurs, “that you are familiar with London.” 

“An easy thing to forget. I don’t spend much time here.”

“The city is big enough.” 

“Not for this accent,” Jensen answers. He unleashes his full Texan drawl. “Ain’t enough room in this city to speak like I want.” Nell brings over two more pints. Jensen thanks her and starts on the second.

Inexhaustibly British, Oscar’s expressions say more than his words. Jensen can tell by the tug of a smile that he’s amused by the Texan drawl, but also confused by it. It’s the same reaction Jensen has when he sees people add milk to tea. 

“I would like to ask a question.” Jensen reverts back to his blandest, most appropriate accent for his present company. “Would you have any information about Tyman? Or know of his most recent whereabouts?” 

This is more direct than any of his other inquiries tonight. He doesn’t dislike Oscar. But he doesn’t quite enjoy the company or the atmosphere. Nothing changes in The Red Lion, not even after seventy-three years. It was historic when Jensen was stationed in Britain, about to leave for Normandy, and remains historic today. Unfortunately, historic means stuffy booths and weak pints. This was his prospect to question and he will, of course, see it through. There is just no need to extend the visit.

Jensen watches the corners of Oscar’s mouth, which remain unchanged during and after the question. “No,” Oscar practically yawns. “Not since that deplorable display of indignity in Wales.”

“That was thirty years ago.”

Oscar finishes his pint. “And?” 

“Well.” With a sigh, Jensen stands from the uncomfortable booth. “I must be going. Thank you for the pints. I am glad to see you are well.”

“And I you. Let me know if you need directions in town.” When Jensen attempts to place a tip on the table, Oscar calls out. “Nell. Let the boy tip you, love.” 

This way, Nell witnesses Jensen take a few notes from his wallet. 

She nods, takes her tip, and goes back to cleaning the bar. 

That’s probably wise.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Chel selected their hotel. 

Tucked behind Buckingham Palace, this is not one of their most budget conscious choices. However, Jensen is glad for the down pillows and marble bath. This is better than Margo’s selection in New York City. Subjecting anyone to stay at a Holiday Inn should be considered cruel and unusual punishment. It was positively Spartan.

Jensen’s room is noted as The Conservatory. 

Half an hour before dawn, he explores the reason behind the name. Margo and Chel retire to their rooms nearby; he can feel them, their respective warmth and energies. No one received satisfactory answers tonight. A few leads here and there, but they only add to the castle built on sand. They came to London based on a lead from New York. 

Morning pulls at Jensen’s senses. Fatigue from the rotation of the earth brings him to his bed, flat on his back, looking up at the ceiling. 

He shuts his eyes and a few buttons click, discreetly hidden throughout the room. Curtains around the peaked window in the ceiling draw back. 

The pale lavender and milky indigo of nighttime gaze back at him. 

For a few moments, Jensen stares up in admiration. 

Fatigue requests an appearance; he allows it entrance. With a simple press of a button, the curtains shut and artificial nighttime takes over.


	4. Chapter 4

 

“We split up,” Margo insists the next evening over tea. “We work faster.”

For everyone’s amusement, Jensen ordered croissants and scones. Chel nibbles at an iced scone. She takes care not to get crumbs on her daffodil Chanel suit. 

“We’ve tried that,” Jensen comments. He chose a cobalt sweater and a button-down the color of fresh shortbread for today, paired with perfectly tailored khakis. “We are no more efficient when splitting up than we are staying together. So we might as well stay together.”

Margo takes a long sip of black tea. “Then we go.”

“In such a hurry to leave the Brits?” Chel sets down the scone in favor of her phone. 

“They know nothing.”

“Sometimes nothing is good.”

“For bystanders,” Margo grumbles. “Food here is soft. Afraid.” 

“You’re in St. James’s.” With a polite waive, Jensen obtains the attention of their waiter and asks for the check. “Soft is all they know.”

Chel’s fingers glide across her phone. “Has anyone thought that maybe Tyman just doesn’t want to be found?” 

“Unimportant.” Jensen leaves a good tip, appreciative of the quick service and lack of questions. “Ama wants him found--that is the point.”

Finishing her coffee, Margo agrees. “Dangerous to have an old one missing.”

“Well, if I were that old, I’d want everyone to leave me alone so I could live in peace. Some place warm, of course. I’d never pick anywhere on this island.”

“This isn’t an isolated incident,” Jensen reminds Chel. “And I don’t hold either of you accountable to joining my efforts. Though your respective elders might.”

More than one bloodline staked an interest in finding Tyman. Jensen took his orders directly from Ama. Pockets of clans and families have tried more than one method of seeking out an elder with no result. It is Jensen’s job to deliver an answer to the question: is Tyman missing because he does not wish to be found, or is he missing because someone else does not wish him to be found? 

An elder in and of themselves is not necessarily evil or of much harm to anyone else. 

But an elder being controlled by someone else can create unfathomable carnage. 

Jensen offers the choice of their next destination to his companions. He is packed and ready, hat on, bill paid, and the worry of sunlight far behind him. 

Margo stands from their table, the first one to do so, and shrugs on her standard leather jacket. 

“We go to best lead.”

“Which is?” Chel leaves an additional tip for the waiter. 

“Back to America.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

In New York City, few people question Jensen’s accent. He feels free to drop “fixin’ to” or “y’all” or “you don’t say” in regular conversation. Of course, this means he in turn must face exposure to Jersey accents, but he manages. 

Late August in New York City feels similar to London--rainy and overcast with a slight chill. 

Jensen selects their hotel on this visit. He skims over typical places like The Plaza and settles on The Mark, about a block away from Central Park. The location suits them and offers ease of travel to and from a list of spots to visit. Being close to the Park also allows for food that Margo describes as, “cunning and tough.” Away from the family-friendly Park attractions, she can find her desired entree there. 

Rooms at The Mark are spacious, well-kept, and brighter in decor than the 41. There was nothing wrong with the 41--Jensen quite liked the celestial view--but this, and the States in general, suits his own personal tastes. 

Unfortunately, little time can be spent relaxing in his suite. A change of clothes and a quick sweep of the available square footage and he begins to make use of the four hours left to him. Chel assigns them each a swath of the city and provides particular restaurants, attractions, and clubs to seek out. Margo invites Jensen for a meal before they start; he politely declines. Central Park at night does nothing for him, even if its inhabitants might be well worth the picking. 

Manhattan doesn’t ask for the same formality in dress as London. Jensen switches from his new fedora to his charcoal cap, commissioned last summer and a regular favorite. He walks each block feeling lighter than he was in London. They are no closer to accomplishing their mission, but his feet find more solid ground on American soil. His first experience of Europe was not under ideal circumstances. How could anyone garner a good first impression of it in a time of war? 

The 8th Infantry Division trained in Ireland. However, more than a few times, groups of them were able to make their way to London while on leave. The idea was to accept British hospitality, as they were readily welcomed into homes, pubs, clubs, and beds. 

Jensen participated in some of that fun. He was in two entirely new countries, thrust into extremely different cultures and scenery. What young man from Texas would ever turn down a night in London, where British women and men were enamored with American GIs? Before the war, his weeks were spent on the family ranch, tending to animals, machinery, and his parents’ broken view of the world. During training, he was fed three times a day, given plenty of routine, structure, and exercise, and given every opportunity for discipline and responsibility. 

But then he experienced his first air raid.

It was hell reflected back to him in the bruised and bleeding faces of children, in the crumbling remains of churches and homes, and in the deepest, darkest fear that spread like shadows. 

One of the very first families that invited Jensen into their home--they had been so excited to meet an American soldier--died in that air raid. An entire family. Mother. Daughters. Son. 

Had the father survived his tour and found out what had happened?

The siren from an ambulance rushing down Madison Avenue interrupts Jensen’s thoughts. It sounds a lot like the siren before an air raid. 

But this is not London in the 1940’s. This is Manhattan, 2017, and the hotel Lowell on Madison and 63rd greets him with its luxurious, modern design. A doorman greets Jensen, then holds open the door to the lobby. Off to the right is a lounge dripping in exquisite taste for only the finest decor. There are no rations of food or metal here. 

And near the grand piano sits Jensen’s desired company.

Rei smiles as Jensen takes a seat at the table, two cocktails waiting. 

“I ordered one for you,” they say, their affection genuine. “What a thrill to hear your heartbeat nearby. I was hoping you would stop in.” 

“Of course. We missed each other the last time I was here. And thank you.” 

Raising their glass, Rei flips their bronze hair over their shoulder. “Yes, we did. I was in Kansas.”

“Everything okay?”

A frown tugs at the corners of Rei’s mouth. They take a sip of their drink and set the glass down. Their nails shimmer, painted turquoise. “You spent time in the military, didn’t you?”

“Briefly, yes.”

“Which war was it?”

“The one with Hitler.”

“My apologies,” they murmur, looking down. “I mean no disrespect. They just… tend to run together for me.”

Jensen reaches across the table and places his right hand over Rai’s left. “Don’t dwell on that. What happened? Do you need assistance?” 

“I’m fine, truly.” Rei gives a watery smile. “One of my companions passed away last week. I have been handling his estate and legal affairs. It hardly seems real, to be honest. When I sit there, looking at papers with his name or signature, I feel as if he should walk into the room and tell me I’m being silly to mourn the inevitable.”

“I am very sorry, Rei.” 

“Thank you. I think it is silly of me, but I can’t help it.”

“How old?”

“Eighty-one and three quarters. Just shy of eighty-two. Their lungs are so fragile.”

“That is a long life. And with you in it, I am sure he had many good moments and memories.”

Rei lets out a small, hollow laugh. “Oh, Jen. This is why Tyman told me never to link myself to companions. Now, when I’m with any of the others, all I can think of is Marty. That isn’t fair to anyone.” They sniff, wipe at their eyes, and plaster on a smile. “And it’s not fair to you to start falling apart like this.”

Business or personal. The name is there. The opportunity is there. 

Jensen fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to Rei. “I don’t rejoice in your pain, but I think it is a testament to how deeply you cared for him.” Personal it is. Guilt taps at his chest knowing that he had to even question it. Jensen pushes it away. 

Red tear drops stain Jensen’s ivory handkerchief, as if rubies have been sewn on. The combination of ivory and crimson highlight the intensity to Rei’s violet eyes. Jensen wonders if his own eyes appear as luminous in grief. He rubs Rei’s free hand with both of his. A sonata echoes from the piano which has finally found a musician. All around them, people place orders for drinks, take sips or pulls from elegant glasses, and engage in quiet conversation. 

Halfway through the first movement, Rei clears their throat and takes another drink. 

“Look at me,” they say, patting Jensen’s hand. “A complete wreck.”

Jensen smiles and nods. “Yep. You look awful.”

Rei rolls their eyes and swats at Jensen. “Grief counselor you are not, my friend. Though, thank you for what you’ve said. I… will do my best to remember it. How are you? Were you just in London, did I hear that through the grapevine correctly?”

“You did.” Jensen finishes his drink. “I only just flew in from there.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No need.”

“Are you sure? I can provide.”

“Very kind of you, but not necessary.”

“Well,” Rei folds their arms over their chest, “I suppose you have something against New Yorkers?”

“Yes.” Jensen laughs. “Y’all taste like those hot dogs they sell in Central Park.” 

A genuine smile pops up. Rei leans back in their seat, drink in hand. “You don’t mean that. What had you in London? Any pressing business or leisure?”

This moment. Jensen leans in. “I must admit, I do require some assistance. You mentioned his name earlier. My business in London is my same business here. No contact, communication, or connection has been made for quite some time. Would you know why?” 

It might be difficult for an individual of Rei’s age to maintain consistent appearances in public. The lounge provides soft, dim lighting, which helps. Rei also understands this time period. Blood vessels do not stand out like indigo rivers and their skin does not maintain the appearance of cold marble. They are careful. Seamless. Adaptive. All entirely necessary and critical qualities of one to endure centuries.

Concern flashes in Rei’s eyes. “No, not at all.” They bite down on their lower lip in concentration. “But then again, it isn’t unusual for him to recede for a few years and then emerge when convenient.”

Jensen takes a sip of his drink. “Could you share with me when your last point of contact was made?”

“Time,” Rei sighs, “it all runs together for me. I would say… the year I met Marty. That was thirty years ago, just about. It sounds much longer than it feels.”

“That’s part of the trouble with y’all,” Jensen murmurs and offers a friendly smile. “Your concept of time is radically different. To you, thirty years is a blip. To me, I’m still on a different line.”

“I’m not that old,” they reply with a slight huff. “I can certainly take you on and pay you back for that hot dog remark.”

“Try me.” 

“I believe I shall. Unless you have more questions?”

“Always. But let us take them outside.” Jensen tries to leave a tip. 

“Ah, ah.” Rei places down money. “My treat. You know, all I have to do to find you is follow the trail of suddenly wealthy waiters.”

“Well, at least it’s not rats.”

He holds the door open for Rei and Manhattan, at two in the morning, becomes theirs.

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Riverside Park gifts them with open space.

Jensen stretches before they start. Much of his time has been spent on a plane or in hotel suites. And no matter how much legroom airlines promise, he always finds himself cramped. Rei looks on with amusement, waiting patiently, hands in the pockets of their trousers.

Starting feels easiest. Jensen’s muscles seem grateful for the release. He pushes aside the logical thoughts attempting to invade his mind--he isn’t wearing the best shoes for this, nor the right outfit, and he wishes he had prepared better for tonight. Focus. Focus on the run. They start on the sidewalk, a lovely, smooth path of concrete. Rei’s coat flutters behind them. The two of them could be perceived as normal, late-night running enthusiasts.

Until Rei increases their speed.

And changes direction on a dime.

All with the same elegant and impeccable movement as before.

The muscles in Jensen’s legs loosen as his body’s temperature increases. A pleasant flush spreads across his face. His body feels less and less confined. He lets out a laugh when a set of trees lean to the right, signaling a change of direction. Tiny, silver flowers in the tree wave, rustling with the breeze of their motion. This is the closest one can get to flying--running with unhindered speed, indulgent in every single stretch of tendon. Lifted off the ground, at a height of no more than his own, Jensen pushes off the trunk of a tree and veers to the left.

This feels natural.

Strength rises from once dormant tissue. Pliant. Agile. Brutal.

Running at this speed requires supreme coordination and excellent posture. Posterior chain muscles must work effectively with deep abdominals. Rouse. Rally. Advance.

From Riverside to the Upper West Side on 72nd to a sharp right onto Broadway into Midtown through the Theater District past the Garment District rounding up to Murray Hill for a hard right onto Lexington directly towards the East Village and back, all the way back up Broadway past 23rd, 34th, 42nd, 50th, 57th, 72nd, 96th, to 104th over Riverside Drive and tumbling onto the soccer field.

Quads, hamstrings, calves, hip flexors, glutes. Jensen runs with his legs straight, his hips stabilized, and biceps bent.

And Rei still outruns him.

Rei doesn’t break a sweat. Jensen sits down on the field and holds his right hand up, respectfully requesting a break. It has been too long since he’s blown off steam this way. Since he’s truly tested the limits and capabilities of his body and age.

A truly considerate breeze floats through the soccer field. Jensen closes his eyes a moment.

This is grass, not sand. This is the hum of a large city, not the sound of ocean waves lapping against bloodied shore, flooding the eye sockets of dead and dying men.

Many say that those who are older do not have sympathy--or empathy. Elders no longer have a physical or emotional connection to those around them. A gentle hand on Jensen’s left shoulder proves otherwise. Rei provides Jensen with a warm smile.

“You think too much,” they say, and help Jensen to his feet.

“I do spend a lot of time in my head.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

Jensen looks up and shrugs. “Eh, I’d say given the alternative, it’s holding up okay.”

With a sigh, Rei flicks him in the ear. “I can think of only one reference Tyman made--on the last day I remember speaking to him. It was to a person I’ve never met, in a city I prefer to stay away from.”

Before the end of the evening, Jensen breaks the news to his companions.

“Looks like Los Angeles is next.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Plenty of connections await their party in Los Angeles--so many, that it becomes a problem.

Chel complains nonstop on their nonstop flight. New York City, in her opinion, is easier to comb through, just like London. But she can’t stand Los Angeles. And even though Margo doesn’t voice her complaints as vocally, she too would prefer any other major city to conduct their investigation.

Determined, Jensen emphasizes that this is the first credible lead they’ve had in months and they must follow it through. Would they prefer to return to the leaders of their bloodlines empty handed? Would they enjoy detailing how they looked, but only kind of, sort of, not really? An assignment of this nature means they have been given a level of trust and responsibility. 

Jensen repeats that to himself on his first evening in Los Angeles. 

Ama asked him to see this through and expects a return on his investment of faith, time, and resources. Jensen has had everything at his immediate disposal--currency, connections, transportation, and delicate information as needed to ensure discretion and cooperation. Ama has been attentive, but he has also been eager to receive concrete information.

That’s the problem with trying to find an elder without announcing it to the entire world.

These things take time. 

And there are many people to ask, many people to sort through and see if they can be trusted with these questions. 

Los Angeles feels entirely different than New York City. Jensen has spent time in every major city across the States and has never quite been able to accept Los Angeles with open arms. The city appears youthful, colorful on the surface, and almost hopeful. People go to Los Angeles to follow their dreams and conquer industries. Until they live there for six months and realize that success is not as plentiful as the coastline and that a lot of what looks new or reliable is actually a well-crafted, superficial facade. 

And the traffic is terrible. Even after centuries,that has not improved. 

The city has over four million residents and there is a list of about one hundred contacts or connections to meet. 

Jensen allows Chel to select their hotel. Despite the privilege, she doesn’t show much enthusiasm, still grumbling about having to deal with the smog and noise of Los Angeles. They stay somewhere with doormen, posh rooms, and dozens of amenities. Jensen considers inquiring about an early evening manicure for the future. He should treat himself to something while they’re here. Though he could always call William and order another hat.

Resigned to get this over with, Chel passes out lists of individuals. Some are new to Jensen, some are prior acquaintances. None are very familiar or well-known to him. 

“We meet back at five,” Margo states, a severe expression on her face. “Then we talk.”

Necessity asks Jensen to blend into his surroundings. His outfit in London would be entirely out of place here. He might get away with what he wore in New York City, but why resort to repeating outfits? 

Downtown LA fashion dictates dark wash jeans, a black v-neck t-shirt, a black hoodie, and black boots. Jensen spikes his hair and decides to go without a hat. 

His first contact can be reliably found at an LA institution called The Smell. 

Joy. 

At least it might have better beer than The Red Lion. 

To stretch, Jensen walks from their hotel to Main. The neighborhoods take a gradual but pronounced shift in appearance and reputation. A mixture of Spanish and English is a constant presence in every neighborhood, but the way it is used changes. Descriptions and translated bus schedules turn into warning signs and auto shop ads. In the background, overreaching buildings stare down, uninterested and too important to care. 

Palm trees hang around the outside of a white, one story building, slim and lean like the handful of people smoking by the doorway. A loud rush of punk rock music makes the street alive at two in the morning. Speeding sadists drive by in luxury cars that seem to bribe anyone and everyone who looks twice at their velocity. Block after block of clubs, restaurants, and nocturnal establishments reveal the exposed nerve of the city. This is an intersection of money, the lack of money, and bare-bones entertainment. 

Signatures scrawled in Sharpie cover the front of the building. A black banner proudly proclaims this place as The Smell. 

A single person guards the front door, checking for IDs like it matters to anyone. Jensen walks past, through the narrow entryway and into the main space. Someone thought it would be creative and perhaps even philosophical to have a dumpster inside for people to mingle in before, during, and after a show. A mixture of graffiti and stickers cover every surface the way ivy covers mansions. And most of that graffiti has merit. It is its own art, reflective of the needs and wants of its core audience.

Across from the faded gray stage, an exposed brick wall offers another location for connection, aside from the dumpster. A tiny bar operates out of cinderblocks and milk crates. Three microphone stands on stage watch over the fifty people scattered in pockets across the space.

Rosalie barely glances at Jensen. She leans against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette. An array of safety pins, bottle caps, buttons, and ribbons hangs from her heavy leather jacket. The shade of violet on her lips highlights their alluring shape. 

She keeps her Spanish simple and her sentences direct.

“You still stick out like a sore thumb.”

After a brief smile, Jensen replies, also in Spanish. “It’s nice to see you too.”

Shrugging, Rosalie offers one of her cigarettes. Jensen accepts. She lights his up before passing it over. “What are you doing here?”

“I have a few questions.”

“Oh yeah? That’s nice.”

“Maybe you can answer one or two.”

“Ay. Just ask.”

Jensen crafts an artful inquiry. He takes the time to drop choice words and phrase things in a specific way. The muscles in his throat, the tone of his voice, and the measure of accent are all subject to careful, constant monitoring. 

Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Rosalie mutters, “Nope. Haven’t heard of him.” 

She finishes a pack of cigarettes, crumples up the pack, and tosses it towards the dumpster. The pack flies out and lands at Rosalie’s feet. 

A person emerges from the dumpster, unhappy and annoyed. Jensen notices their hair first--a six inch mohawk, the spikes dyed pink. 

“What’d I tell you about throwing shit into my motherfucking home?” 

“Like you own the place?” Rosalie turns to leave. “Take your questions some other place, Calvin Klein.” 

“Don’t be throwing crap in here again!” 

“Bite me, Tyrone.”

“Oh, that’s it, walk away, go on. I’m sure you’ll be back to pick up your trash like a decent person--when hell freezes over. You.” Jensen looks over. “If you pick that up, I’ll tell you something.”

Oblige the man standing in a dumpster or… what else? Seems like a reasonable enough request, even though Jensen doubts Tyrone has anything he wants to hear. Jensen picks up the crumpled pack and tosses it into a nearby trash can. 

“See?” Tyrone huffs and leans against the edge of the dumpster. “That wasn’t so goddamn difficult, was it? Yo, where you from? Cause it ain’t from around here.”

“All over.” Jensen stands an arm’s length away from Tyrone. “Just visiting.”

Tyrone nods and shrugs. “That’s what I said when I got here. Must be like… fucking twenty years ago. You know why I stayed? Pastrami sandwiches. If I like you, I’ll tell you where to get the best one.”

“You said you had something to tell me?”

“Yeah, just, here. Throw this out for me too. Thanks.” 

Jensen carefully pitches a plastic bag filled with banana peels, some of which are fresh, some of which have a shot at fossilization. Who knows who might empty this trash can? But it seems odd to Jensen to throw out garbage from a dumpster. 

“Potassium,” Tyrone clarifies. “Got to have that potassium. Lot of people forget that. Then you get assholes with attitudes like Miss Whatever.”

Against his typical judgment, Jensen dares to ask, “Do you really live in there?”

The mohawk points rise a few inches as Tyrone stands straight up. “Fuck yes. Safest place I’ve ever lived. Not the quietest, but once in awhile we get a band that comes in that doesn’t straight up suck.”

“I see.”

“You ever find yourself in a small, dark space?”

“I have, before, yes.” 

“Then you ever spend enough time in that small, dark space that you start thinkin’, ‘Hey, this ain’t so fucking bad’?” 

“...yes.”

Tyrone makes direct eye contact. “Then you know why. It’ll click.”

The last part sounds more ominous than Jensen prefers to hear from strangers inside a place like The Smell. Or anyone, really. He changes the subject. “I’ve only had pastrami sandwiches in New York.”

“Man…” Tyrone leans back against the edge and rolls his eyes. “You have not lived. After I tell you this shit do you promise me you’ll go try a pastrami sandwich at this place?”

“I promise.”


	8. Chapter 8

 

This is how, the next night, Jensen finds himself at Langer’s Delicatessen at 7th and Alvarado.

At four in the morning.

Alone, because he did not tell Margo or Chel about this location. He didn’t tell them about Tyrone’s information either to save himself from any potential embarrassment. He’s never met Tyrone before, never had any connection or mutual acquaintance--why should Jensen trust him? It’s possible that none of what Tyrone shared will pan out and Jensen will just have wasted an entire evening and then some.

He said Tyman visited The Smell twice, probably within the last two years.

And that was it.

Not a strong lead, but more helpful than Rosalie at least. 

To Tyrone’s credit, Langer’s looks like a legitimate establishment. Tyrone provided information that if Jensen knocks twice on the employee door after four in the morning, and offers a little something extra in way of tip, an inside man will be able to provide one of the day’s first pastrami sandwiches. Tyrone kept insisting that 7th and Alvarado held the holy grail. 

Jensen stands near the appropriate door and inhales the scent of hand-cut pastrami, coleslaw, Russian dressing, Swiss cheese, and double-baked rye bread. Good. Good so far. 

Hesitation picks at him and the details that rattle around in the back of his mind. He hasn’t fed. Sure, he’s eaten little pieces of biscuits or cookies here and there, sipped some coffee or tea. But he hasn’t  _ fed _ . And no amount of pastrami sandwiches, no matter how good, can make up for that hunger. 

It isn’t that Jensen has ignored that hunger; he has actively chosen not to pay it any attention.

Fifteen minutes after four and Jensen moves to knock on the door. A motorcycle pulls up to the curb nearby and the engine cuts. Seems like someone else knows the insider Oz of pastrami sandwiches. 

The motorcyclist looks like he has just come from an evening at The Smell--pierced ears, nose, and eyebrows, tight black jeans, a fitted black shirt, and a lightweight black jacket with studded everything. His shirt proudly says: "Beer: Now cheaper than gas.” 

Black eyeliner. Black nail polish. Black biker boots. Black hair tied back with a black band.

And still so… human.

“Nice to see someone getting the worm this early,” he chirps, flashing a quick smile. “Usually I’m the only one hassling Gonzales for a sammy right about now.”

Before Jensen can reply, the employee door opens. A small, shrewd man stands in the doorway.

“Gonzales,” biker individual calls out. “I’m back.”

Gonzales eyes the man up and down, then rumbles, “Huh. Thought you were dead.”

“Ehh, you know how that goes. Meet a guy who shows you a few hundred bucks, let him whisk you away to fabulous Carmel, wake up naked on the beach a few times, and catch a couple’a buses back home. All in a day’s work.”

Unimpressed, Gonzales glances at Jensen, then back at the biker. “Pay up, let’s go.”

“Well, you see, G, I’m totally good for it. I have a gig soon--like, soon…” 

“No.”

“Man, I just got back from having my ass dragged, all the way from Carmel.” That makes no sense. “I’ve paid you back before.”

“Two sandwiches,” Jensen interjects and pushes cash into Gonzales’ hand. “Please.” 

The appearance of cash fuels Gonzales to act fast. He returns with one plastic bag--two containers filled with infamous number nineteens. Jensen hands one of the containers to the biker. It’s not that Jensen believes the man’s story, but he certainly smells like he’s woken up on the beach naked more than a few times. 

Eyes wide, the biker sputters out a list of thank yous. 

“Don’t mention it,” Jensen murmurs. “Enjoy.”

Starstruck by the appearance of free food, the biker blurs out, “W-well hey, do you wanna chow down together?”

No, not particularly, Jensen thinks. He didn’t even really want this sandwich. 

“Hold on…” Rummaging through a backpack that has seen better days, the biker pulls out two aluminum cans. He holds them up, proud of his findings. “I’ve got drinks! You like coffee, right? This is Kona coffee--best stuff ever.” 

Since that seems to be the best this person can do, Jensen accepts the offer to dine together. 

“We can pop a squat near Killer. That’s my bike’s name. Oh, and I’m Jared.” To pop a squat apparently means sit on the curb. The various piercings and studs that serve as accoutrement on Jared jingle when he sits. 

“Jensen.” 

“Thanks for the grub, Jensen. I’m starving.” Jared takes off his jacket and bites into his sandwich, moaning and licking his fingers. With his attention tuned into the sandwich and very little else, Jensen takes the opportunity to observe Jared. This is very different company than that of his usual comrades. And without the jacket, a new set of scents reveal themselves--sand, sun, dark alcohol, cheap cigarettes, and something like ash. There must have been a bonfire on that beach at some point. 

Tattoos stretch across tendons and veins on Jared’s forearms. 

His lean form creates a sharp yet supple silhouette. 

Jared lets out a content, sated sigh, followed by a belch. No pastrami sandwich in existence stood a chance. 

Canned Kona coffee doesn’t exactly pair well with pastrami. Jensen tastes the sandwich and agrees that it is exceptional, maybe even comparable to those found in New York City. The coleslaw seems too much, but the quality of the bread and pastrami save it. In any case, Jensen sticks to small sips of the coffee. 

Finished, Jared looks over at Jensen, a smudge of coleslaw on his bottom lip. 

“You want me to blow you?” Jared licks his lip and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“...no.” Jensen grudgingly adds, “No thank you.”

Smiling, Jared inserts a lip ring into a previously unknown piercing. Apparently, it would have gotten in the way of demolishing his free pastrami sandwich. “Just offering. Seems like a fair trade.”

This has been a waste of time.

Thankfully, he need not tell his companions about this. Though it is irritating that Los Angeles hasn’t yielded any new leads for all three of them. Jensen still has about forty connections to work through. Reason reiterates that these things take time. Common sense kicks himself in the ass for popping a squat while he should be working harder to get results. 

Standing up, Jensen brushes off a few wayward crumbs of rye bread. He prepares for a brief and permanent departure from the land of pastrami and Kona coffee. 

Jared shakes out his ponytail. Mahogany roots show through heavy black dye. 

“Weird,” he murmurs, licking his palm and smoothing out a section of hair. “You guys usually like my blow jobs.”

One eyebrow ascends while Jensen grumbles out, “I don’t think you know what you speak of. You forget yourself.”

“Nope. I know what I speak of and shit like that.”

Jensen highly doubts that Jared--someone who has napkins right beside him but refuses to use them and instead prefers to wipe his greasy hands on his jeans--has any clue about anything. This is largely the reason why Jensen ceased seeking out the company of humans. 

Surely pleased with himself, Jared grins from his position of popping a squat. “Nosferatu,” he states, in a way that makes Jensen want to smack that grin off his face, then stands to meet Jensen eye to eye.

“That is incredibly antiquated,” Jensen growls. “And highly inaccurate.”

“Oh ho, but not wrong.” 

“What is it that you hope to achieve in this exchange?” Two inches of distance. An extremely uneven playing field where Jensen has all the advantage.

However, this doesn’t seem to matter.

Jared laughs and holds his hands up. “Look, alright, I get it. You could grind me into pastrami. I’m just saying. I know what you are and I’ve met others like you. But I get that you’re not exactly the Netflix and chill type. That’s cool.” He shrugs on his jacket and backpack. “Thanks for the food. Hey… you gonna eat the rest of yours?”

The danger of the situation has failed to reach the synaptic connections in this human’s brain.

Swift, brutal, and annoyed, Jensen grabs Jared by the throat. His fingers press into the sweaty, salty surface of his neck. Taut muscles forcibly relax with pressure. Veins, arteries, capillaries all pulse with the severity of their encounter. Destructive and divisive hunger amplifies the rhythm of circulating, fresh, young blood.

Now this--this section of hot, flushed skin--he could really sink his teeth into.

Jensen releases his catch. Just a minnow. Nothing worth reeling in and dealing with later.

He shoves Jared back, which causes him to stumble but not completely fall over. At the very least, the biker has good balance. 

Bruises emerge. Jared coughs and tries to catch his breath. 

“That was nothing,” Jensen mutters. “Consider yourself lucky.”

Wheezing, Jared nods. “Lucky… considered... “ 

Enough of this nonsense. Tomorrow evening, he’ll order a hat from William as a reward for dealing with trifles such as these. What would life be like now had Eustice accepted his offer? He probably wouldn’t have had to venture into The Smell or place his hands on a vagrant.

Half a mile away, Jensen hears the grumbles of said sorry vagrant--important grumbles.

“Asshole. At least Tyman never choked me. With his hands.” 

Dammit.


	9. Chapter 9

 

Jared tosses his backpack onto the leather couch in the suite’s sitting room. 

He stands, hands on his hips, and surveys the comfortable suite. His tongue flicks against his lip ring, deep in thought.

“So if I tell you what I know,” Jared muses, “you’ll pay me ten thousand bucks?” 

“Yes.” Jensen tries to ignore the tattered and dirty state of Jared’s clothing and person, made all the more noticeable by indoor lighting. 

“That’s a lot of pastrami sandwiches.”

A knock at the door diverts Jensen’s attention. Jared walks around the room, poking at pillows, vases, and the television. Jensen leaves him to his inspection and answers. 

Margo stands in the hallway, arms folded over her chest. She looks no more impressed or amused with Los Angeles than she was earlier this evening. And with sunrise in less than twenty minutes, her mood does not have a chance at improving. 

“You have a visitor,” she states, hanging back but observing with her other senses. She can smell Jared--his distinct scent of sweat and blood--and she can hear his heartbeat. 

“Dinner,” Jensen quips. “I got hungry.”

With a nod, Margo issues her approval. “You need help?”

“No. This is breakfast as well.”

Margo smiles. This appeals to her; she often draws out her meals. She offers a nod of approval. “Good, is good. Add some energy. I turned up nothing. Again.” 

Does Jared really think he can saunter into the master bedroom? What if he lies on the bed--with his filthy shoes on? 

“As did I.” Jensen keeps his body language relaxed. “We can touch base tomorrow evening. Maybe Chel had more luck.”

“Not likely,” Margo sighs. “Enjoy.” 

A brief sensation of guilt flits through Jensen. He isn’t lying. He just isn’t revealing his hand. Because this hand might end up giving him some obscene gesture and hightailing it. It was enough to trust Tyrone; trusting Jared is a completely different issue. Human memory can never be counted on for accurate information. People may wholeheartedly believe they saw someone do something, but it overwhelmingly fails to factually stand up. Although Jared did give a fairly detailed description of Tyman. 

Jensen shuts and locks the door. Five quick strides and he reaches his bedroom, ready to order the damn human off and away from his bed. 

Instead, Jared is nowhere near the bed. Jensen finds him in the bathroom, brushing his hair in front of the mirror.

“Man, I look like hell on toast,” Jared whines. He pokes at the bags under his eyes. “So do you sleep in a coffin? Because I checked under the bed and found zip.”

In the doorway, Jensen sighs. “That’s a very forward question--and please do not go through my things.”

“I was curious. So you do sleep in a coffin.”

“I did not say that.”

“Uh… so you  _ do _ sleep in a coffin?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jensen prays for patience. “No, I do not sleep in a coffin. No, if you try and put garlic or a cross or holy water on me while I sleep I will not die. But I do need to sleep now and you are not to disturb me or my things. Understood?” 

“Capice.” 

“Whatever.” Jensen ushers Jared out of the bathroom and back into the sitting room. “You sleep here, on the couch. You do not leave this suite. You do not go searching through it. I can tell exactly where you have been and what you have touched.”

Some of this seems to sink in. 

“What about food?”

“Room service.”

“Can I get anything I want?”

“Within reason, yes.”

“Is there a spa in this place?”

“I don’t know and it doesn’t matter because you are not to leave the suite.”

“But like, a masseuse can come here.”

“No. No one is to enter and you are not to leave.”

“What if the place catches on fire?”

“It will not.”

“Do you want me to order you anything for whenever you get up?”

“No. Just do. Not. Leave.”

“...what about a stake through your heart?”

“No!”

“Just asking, just asking.”

“Do I need to say this?”

“Do you?”

“You are not to stab me through the heart with a stake.”

“Right. Would it hurt though?”

“Goodnight.”

“G’night. Thanks again for the sandwiches.”

Jensen does not reply to that. He tricks the lock to the front door with no more effort or energy than it takes to undress and slip into bed. This evening has taken a surprising emotional toll on his nerves. There was no other option than to bring the human into his suite and keep him here during day time. 

The inevitable rising of the sun becomes a blessing as he bows out to its magnetic pull. 

Humans are notoriously skittish.

On the curb near Langer’s was not a suitable place to ask questions and gain information. Part of basic training involved understanding how to secure sensitive information. Jensen understands that too much pressure, too hard of a touch, can backfire and produce false details. Threats and torture only go so far. 

Army training has helped Jensen in every aspect of his life--beyond the moment it ended. 

Those nine weeks of basic training were not wasted on him. He arrived at base ready and willing to turn over his personal contraband items. He turned his life and mind inside out for inspection, direction, and discipline. Drill sergeants pushed his physical and emotional limits during every intelligence training, physical training, briefing, and drill. 

What do they do now in basic, almost a hundred years since he passed?

It took a decade for him to stop using military time. 

The day started at 0500--no exceptions. He made his bed, brushed his teeth, showered, shaved, and dressed in a set amount of time to join the rest of his squad. If a drill sergeant felt generous, the squad would get mops to clean the bathrooms. That was rare. Most mornings, they knelt on hard tile floor and cleaned every square inch of the bathroom floor with toothbrushes. Then breakfast. Then formation, rifle in hand. Roll call. Morning run. Stretches. Calisthenics. Back to the barracks. Change of clothes. Seven to eight minutes for breakfast in the mess hall. Specialized training. Jensen excelled at marksmanship and long distance running. Drill. Ceremonies. Briefings. Dinner. Final formation.

Ready and willing to die.

Jensen wakes up in the last few minutes of sunlight. Drawn, the curtains provide some relief from the sun. The last thing he needs now is a headache. 

Land navigation skills were put to the test in basic. Soldiers were presented with a compass, a map, and orders. Sensing that his hotel suite is not actively on fire, Jensen rises and goes through a shortened version of his morning routine--push ups, sit ups, stretches. Were this any other evening he might burn some energy by going for a run with Margo. 

Terrible, off-key singing from the sitting room reminds Jensen that this is not just any other evening.

Getting dressed, Jensen repeats the seven army values to himself in an attempt to calm down: loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. 

These are the values to sustain a soldier in times of both peace and conflict.

“I haaaaaaate myseeeeeeeelf fooooooooor lovin’ yooooou…!” 

No helmet in the planet could silence that screech of lyrics. 

Jensen rushes, dressing in what he feels might be the most approachable appropriate clothing--a pair of dark wash jeans, royal blue sneakers, and a white t-shirt. This should do. This should make him appear relatable. 

Jared sits on the couch, perched on an arm, styling his hair. 

“Oh, hey,” he chirps. “I took a shower while you were out. You’ll notice that I did not stab you through the heart with a stake--you’re welcome. I did get some boss ass room service though. Did you know they’ll make you anything you want any time of day or night? I got some stuff off the menu, but then I was like, you know what I want? A motherfucking taco. So I ordered one motherfucking taco. It was really good. You sure you don’t want me to order something?”

Well.

It takes talent to talk that long without pausing for breath.

“You’re dressed like a normal person today,” Jared adds, eyeing Jensen’s outfit. “Trez chick.”

Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. Loyalty…

“Boy,” Jared whistles. “You are one tough nut to crack.”

Thankfully, showering improved Jared’s appearance. More of that black hair dye has washed out and he looks less ragged. The same cannot be said for Jared’s clothes, but that can be taken care of with very little hassle. Jared is broader in the shoulders, and three inches taller. His eyes can be described as hazel, though they appear blue in this lighting. 

“I will order you some attire and then we will go out.” 

“So if I throw a bunch of rice on the floor, do you have to count it all before we go out? Also, can we go for pizza?” 

Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service...

Jared’s stomach leads them to Vito’s Pizza on North La Cienega Boulevard. 

Likewise, Jared’s stomach orders breadsticks, a house salad, two slices of cheese pizza, one slice of black olives and pepperoni pizza, and a Diet Coke.

He eats it all, not one to waste food. 

Jensen orders a macchiato. He declines to share a piece of tiramisu. 

“I don’t care,” Jared murmurs between bites of dessert, “what anyone says. This is the best pizza place in LA. You got the right sauce, great cheese, and excellent crust. How’s your coffee?”

“It’s fine. How do you know Tyman?”

“Can I order another slice of this to go?”

“Would you answer my question?”

“Yeah, but they might run out of tiramisu.”

“Fine, just do it.”

“I signaled the dude. He knows what’s up. If he came up to you with a flask of holy water and doused you in it, would you melt like the Wicked Witch?” 

“Do you ask these questions because you’re plotting my demise?”

“I’m just curious.”

“Tyman should have answered at least some of these ridiculous questions.”

“Nope. So I’m askin’ you.”

The second slice of tiramisu arrives wrapped and ready to go. Jared beams, practically glowing. He protectively cradles it in his arms and looks up at Jensen, hearts in his eyes. 

Pushing to get back on track, Jensen repeats his question plus one. “How did you know Tyman and when was the last time you saw him?” 

Jared fiddles with the collar of the button down shirt Jensen ordered for him. The fit isn’t perfect, but it is ten times better than whatever Jared considered clothing before. Looking up towards the ceiling, Jared thinks over the questions. His tongue peeks out again.

“Yikes, when was the last time I saw him. And where the hell were we? Oh! He was at my gig a few months back. No, wait, maybe like, six months. He stopped by the Brookdale and gave us a thumbs up.” Jared feels the need to give Jensen a thumbs up and a smile. 

“And?”

“Uh, well, that was kinda it.”

“He watched your show in its entirety?”

“Yeah, I mean, after the first set I caught up with him backstage and we made plans to hang out the week after.”

“Did you?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know why?”

Shrugging, Jared plays with his napkin, folding it in different shapes. “Not really. Dude was in and out of LA all the time. You guys seem to do that--move around a lot, I mean. I called him a few times, left voicemails, but I dunno, never really thought much of it.”

Jensen would prefer to have this conversation in a more secure and private setting. People walk past constantly, customers and staff alike. A family of five sits two tables down, the children wielding breadsticks as swords and their parents discussing mortgage payments. Two busboys clear tables on opposite sides of the restaurant but manage to carry on a conversation in Spanish. At the table next to them, a young woman reads from a book, headphones in but no music on. 

“Here.” Jared hands over his phone, the screen set to a picture. “Bonafide proof that I’m not bullshitting you. I took that selfie a week before the gig.” 

For someone born in the time of Hadrian, Tyman seems to have an affinity for whatever kind of music Jared plays. In the picture, Tyman stands next to Jared, an arm placed protectively around Jared’s shoulders. 

One of the busboys clears their table, swift and efficient. He asks Jared about the bruises on his neck. Jared laughs and rubs his neck. “Got into a fight and the dude punched me in the throat. Cheap shot, right?” 

The busboy encourages Jared to kick the perpetrator in the nuts the next time. 

“Solid advice, A plus,” Jared agrees. Once the busboy leaves, Jared’s foot nudges Jensen. “You heard him--next time I get a shot at the family jewels.” 

“There won’t be a next time,” Jensen confirms and hands Jared back his phone. “Unless you misbehave.”

“I aim to misbehave.” Jared stretches out his is chair, legs on display. “You sure this can’t turn into a Pretty Woman kind of deal?” 

“Are you ready?” 

A frown pulls at Jared’s dimples. “Yeah, I guess. You know what Pretty Woman is, right?”

Jensen pays with a card and leaves his tip with a woman behind the service counter. They leave before she has time to say anything about it. Outside, Jensen takes a deep breath, glad to be away from the smell of sauce and family fun. 

“I know what Pretty Woman is. You are not Julia Roberts and I am not Richard Gere. And you make the most antiquated references.”

“Well, not literally, but there’s potential… you know? And hey, classics never die.”

Feed him, clothe him, and this happens. “Jared, I appreciate the information you have provided. If that is all you know, I will submit my payment and continue my work.”

Shoulders slumped forward, Jared sighs. “Fine, Edward.”

“My name is not Edward.”

“My bad. I gotta get my stuff from your hotel.” By now, Jared has rolled up the sleeves to his shirt, exposing his numerous tattoos. Bright, blended colors stand out like airborne acrobats. Splashes of crimson, violet, lime green, and teal jump, dive, leap, and twist together. 

“How did Tyman introduce himself to you?” Jensen starts walking in the direction of the hotel. 

Reluctant in his steps, Jared looks down at the sidewalk. “I saw him at The Smell one night. He looked interesting so I asked him for a cigarette. Well…” Jared snorts. “I asked him if he had anything hot for me to put my mouth on.”

“...”

“Sheesh, tough crowd.” 

“Continue.”

“He lit a cigarette for me and passed it over. Then I kinda got dragged into this fight. Well, maybe I stood a little too close to the mosh pit. But anyway, I took a punch, threw a few back, next thing I knew, my nose was bleeding. But the band that night? Fuckin’ amazing. Totally worth the bleed."

There are a variety of things Jensen was and is willing to bleed for. A fight at a concert is not one of them. He learned how to take punches from basic training. Any soldier should possess the skill and capacity to win a fistfight. Jensen clenches and unclenches his fist. Maybe things were simpler in wartime before grenades, guns, tanks, and chemicals. 

“Next thing I know though and Tyman had a piece of his shirt pressed onto my schnoz. He helped me take a breather outside, made sure it wasn’t broken.”

“Did he feed from you?” Jensen keeps his voice low. 

“Yeah, a few times.”

“What was your relationship?”

Jared waves at a dog on a leash across the street. “Do you want the details or should I stick to we put mustard on each other’s hot dogs a couple times?”

“Generalities are fine, thank you.”

“Okie doke, well, it was a casual hot dog stand kind of situation.” 

“Did he provide you with information about where he lived? Did he ever take you to a permanent address?”

“No and no. We crashed at hotels. Well, not like the place you’re at, but decent joints. He was always gone before sunrise.” 

They pass strip mall after strip mall. Signs and neon lights for Chinese food, tacos, payday loans, palm trees covered in flyers and coupons. Even the sidewalk serves as advertisement, with rainbow colored chalk pointing towards bars or nail salons tucked behind strip malls. Hazy, smoky mountains maintain their distance, clearer to Jensen now at night than they ever were in daytime. 

In the suite, Jared collects his things, taking his time. He asks Jensen if he can take the hair dryer and hairbrush. It makes no difference to Jensen. Jared takes those things, a towel, every complimentary bottle of soap or shampoo he can find, a bottle of rum that came with the room, and three bottles of water. 

“Well,” Jared announces with a sigh, “guess this is it.”

“Here is a check.” Jensen hands over a check in the amount he promised. “You’ll be able to cash it without a problem.”

Jared’s eyes go wide. He grins, folds the check, and places it in his right boot. “Thanks, hope you find him. Seemed like a nice guy.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t kill you,” Jensen says, blunt and to the point. “It’s unusual to feed from someone more than twice.” 

Unbothered by the comment, Jared laughs and scratches his head. “Unless he was kinkier than I thought, you can’t really fuck what you kill. You sure you don’t wanna give something a shot in the dark? Or maybe you don’t swing that way.”

Could this casual human acquaintance mean something about Tyman? Something on a larger scale? Or is and was it just that--a casual relationship based on mutual interests and gains? Who knows with old ones. Maybe Tyman enjoyed Jared’s piercings or tattoos. Maybe Jared reminded him of someone from ancient times. Maybe Jared allowed him to forget those ancient times. Could that be why he allowed Jared to live? But then why not let Jared know he would be going under or away for an extended period of time? 

Perhaps he thought no one would ever find Jared or think to ask him.

“No,” Jensen answers. “I need to continue working.”

“So you’re not into guys?”

Jensen opens the front door and shows Jared the way out. 

Out in the hallway, Jared lingers. Jensen doesn’t want to shut the door on him, but he will. Besides, there are far worse actions Jensen could do against Jared. Shutting the door on him would be merciful. 

“So, like, I’m headed over to the club Tyman liked the most. Maybe someone else knows something that can help y’all out?” 

Neither of his companions have reported any concrete leads from their contacts. It seems that the only places Tyman had connections to in Los Angeles were environments like The Smell. And it seems that the only individuals he made any meaningful impressions on were humans like Jared.

It’s possible that they have been asking all the wrong people.

Against the most reliable plan of action, Jensen decides to follow this lead. He relents and accepts the proposal. 

Elated, Jared muscles his way back into the suite. He sets his stuff down and taps a finger to his chin, then looks over at Jensen. 

“How do you feel about a fake nose ring?” 


	10. Chapter 10

 

Bad.

That is how Jensen feels about a fake nose ring. 

He doesn’t understand the necessity of going so deep undercover to ask a few questions. While he dressed appropriately for spaces like The Red Lion, who in Los Angeles will care if he shows up to a club in a suit?

By ten, Los Angeles transforms into something similar to Jared’s tattoos: chaotic, unwieldy, and bright. The neighborhood of The Smell seems absolutely dark and orderly in comparison. Everyone at The Smell knew why they were there and what they could expect. Here, the crowd refuses any homogeneity. A few individuals ask around for the location of the party. No one truthfully seems to know where exactly it is, but they know that the weather is warm, the night is early, and where one club closes another one will still be open.

Jared, of course, knows where to go.

“Last time Harvey swung by Tyman got me in,” Jared shouts, navigating through a crowd of people wearing bellbottoms and fringe. “So maybe he’s back again. You don’t miss Harvey when he’s in town.”

Jensen adjusts his fake nose ring and follows. They walk away from the sidewalks and down a few alleyways, behind a block of strip malls, and around a couple of corners. Palm trees recede from sight. Light pollution makes it difficult to see the mountains. 

Music breaks into the scene.

This is a moveable feast. 

The volume surpasses the most generous permit. Brilliant, multicolored Christmas lights haphazardly hang from the main entrance. People funnel in past three bouncers at the door. Most people, that is. Some, for whatever reason, are turned away. Maybe it is the blast and drill of the music, but no one dares argue, no one pushes, shouts, or cuts in line. Part of the experience is waiting in line like small vessels with passengers waiting to dock. 

With no more than a nod and a thumb towards Jensen, Jared secures their passage. 

Warehouse ventilation provides the dance floor with enough breathing room. Unfortunately, the size of the space and the number of people, plus two industrial fans, make it difficult for Jensen to tell if there are others like him in the crowd. He estimates at least three hundred people--and that number increases every other minute as the bouncers allow more in. 

How the hell is he supposed to interview anyone?

Any fledgling would go into sensory overload here. 

The kickback of the bass, giant neon signs, Christmas light necklaces, flashing pieces of jewelry and clothing, exposed skin, the high-powered rush of hearts pumping and beating to keep up with the music.

Jared accepts multiple glow in the dark necklaces. Jensen takes one as offered, and declines the rest. It’s enough for him to wear his fake nose ring and the outfit Jared chose. He had not expected them to dress each other in the span of an evening. And he has a feeling that Jared chose this outfit as payback for the button down shirt--black skinny jeans with gaping holes in the knees, heavy black boots, a white sleeveless shirt, and a black mesh shirt over it. None of Jensen’s hats matched this outfit. He wouldn’t want them to.

House music blends into soul which blossoms into pop and reverts back to house. 

Everybody on or near the dance floor moves in a relentless rhythm. The energy feels seemingly endless. People of all ages, races, abilities, and backgrounds mold together under strobe lights. A few folks pass out Jell-o shots. A group of three, dressed like cowboys, line step in perfect synchronization. 

Not many people linger on the edge.

Jared looks back to make sure he hasn’t lost Jensen. 

Jensen wants to tell him not to worry; his senses are sharper than Jared’s. He wouldn’t lose Jared’s heat profile or his heartbeat, even in this crowd. Or his scent. It seems to stand out. Perhaps because they somewhat know each other now.

The only bathroom available in the warehouse acts as their destination. Here, the volume of the mixes doesn’t reach as far, though the bass manages to kickback just fine. All these different vibrations interest Jensen, but not enough to distract him from business. He stays close to Jared and allows him to talk to people first. This is Jared’s territory and people open up to him without hesitation. A few offer hugs and pecks on the cheek. One woman grabs Jared’s ass. 

He doesn’t seem too upset about it.

People look at Jensen, curious, but ultimately move on, invested in dancing, drinking, or shouting at each other over the music. He tries his best to blend in by modifying his body language and stature. He notices that Jared typically slouches in an attempt to make himself less intimidating and more open. That, combined with his smile, receives immediate responses. 

Unfortunately, none of those responses are what Jensen wants to hear.

“No one’s seen him,” Jared shouts, his mouth an inch away from Jensen’s ear. “Not since last time with me.” 

“Does anyone know where he might have gone?” 

Jared dips back into a few clusters of people. 

Is it wise to let Jared live after this? 

Laughing, Jared returns. He places a hand on Jensen’s shoulder and leans in. “No clue, but that group over there wants us to join them.”

“For what?” Jensen immediately regrets asking and Jared immediately enjoys that he did.

“You know that thing you do where you put your penis into some place? That.” He pats Jensen’s shoulder. “It’s okay, I told them maybe next time.”

In two hours’ time, Jared completes a full round of the club. There are certain people he spends time catching up with and others he simply smiles at and walks past. How he knows who to speak to seems almost random. And as time goes on, more people jam onto the dance floor, which makes it increasingly difficult for Jared--or even Jensen--to hear anything but music.

At three in the morning, Jensen taps Jared on the shoulder and nods towards the exit.

Jared gives him a thumbs up.

The ability to take in a deep, calming breath returns to Jensen once outside. He runs a hand through his hair and dedicates a few seconds to sorting out his senses. Once again he teases Jared’s heartbeat and heat profile out of those nearby. 

“Sorry,” Jared sighs, lighting up a cigarette. “Guess you can take off your nose ring now.”

“Good.”

“It looked so good on you though.” 

“No thank you.”

“Fine. So I guess Tyman really doesn’t want to be found, huh?”

“It appears so.”

“But I’m also guessing that’s not a good enough answer for ya.”

“No, it is not.”

“What if he just went on vacay? Or, like, got into Harvard Law to get payback on an ex-boyfriend?” 

Jensen rolls his eyes. “I know you think that I do not know your references, but I do.”

Laughing, Jared puts out his cigarette. “It’s great! I just wanna know how you know. Like did you really watch Legally Blonde? Did you see it in theaters when it first came out? With or without friends? Or maybe on Netflix? Do you have Netflix? Maybe you watch it every night? Oh, c’mon, don’t be a pouter. I’m just teasing.”

“I’m not pouting,” Jensen grumbles and stands up straight. “You do not live very long without researching popular culture or changing trends in entertainment.”

The scent of that cigarette differs from the scent of ash and smoke on Jared before. In fact, that original scent lingers on him still, despite their travel through the club. It must be permanent. Yet it stands out in an irritatingly inexplicable way. Jared runs a hand through his hair, shaking it free of its tie once again. He tilts his head back, gathering pieces of hair with both hands. Piercings and studs glimmer in the hazy luminescence provided by Christmas lights. 

Jensen’s bruises provide a dark contrast to all the silver and sparkle, like summer hydrangeas blooming over his delicate jugular.

“You’re staring,” Jared murmurs with a smile. “And I like it.”

To survive, one must endure. And Jensen understands how to endure hunger. But he’s not so great at enduring deliberate temptation, the kind that leaves his teeth aching and mouth watering for pull after pull of oxygenated, protein-rich blood.

He could accept the invitation. And he could tear Jared’s throat out. 

Three factors prevent this. One, Tyman may take offense. That seems serious enough. Two, Jared disappears from the spot where he stands, carted off faster than Jensen can trace. 

Three, Jensen’s skull meets a blunt object with full force. 

Darkness captures him, cuts him free, and pushes his consciousness out to sea.

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

A mass of words and memories struggle in Jensen’s mind.

Everything is all at once familiar and completely foreign. Metallic clangs. Junior gunners. Soft steel. Driftwood and sand. Shrapnel whistling. Outstretched limbs and shattered teeth. Homemade superstitious trinkets. Hemorrhaging into cool, gray sand.

Operation Overlord.

Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage.

Again.

Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage.

Louder.

Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage.

Soldiers as contortionists, their limbs twisted, mutilated, and raw. Decapitation. Drowning in either sea or blood or on their own damned tongues. The boat ramps went down, then they jumped, swam, ran, and crawled towards the cliffs carrying eighty pounds of equipment. Two hundred yards of beach had to be crossed to reach any cover. 

God, it was hell.

Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage.

Again.

Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage.

The boy next to Jensen had lost his face. It had melted off. He stared at it, watched it collapse and shrivel under sand and seawater. Then the face leapt up, or so it seemed to, but it was just his body dying, causing some last spasms and twitches. Inches away there were entrails, spilling out like crimson plumes. Terrible flesh and absolute carnage. 

Omaha Beach lost two thousand souls. 

June 6th, 1944. 

Jensen was one of them. 

At least, he should have been.

What Goliath of war saw fit to toss him onto the beach, writhing and hacked, but was so generous as to lay him on his side? So he did not choke. He did not suffocate. And pressure from his equipment helped slow the exit of blood from his mangled, soaked body. 

All he had left was the repetition of words that he had run for, fought for, died for.

Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage.

“Wake up, Jensen.” 

The brightest color was red. 

“Jen, I’m… I’m gonna be sick.” 

What? 

“Wake up, please. Before they come back.” 

Cold water laps at Jensen’s face. Not a splash. Not a dunk. A rhythmic, steady tide. Is he face down? In water? No, on his side, once again. 

Release. Reinforcements. Counterattack. A cadence of commands. 

Water takes the form of long, shaking fingers pressing over his face. He won’t be so lucky this time. He’ll drown in a few inches of water. Survive all that just to be done in by the tide on a beach an entire world away from the small town he left outside of Dallas. 

Jensen’s eyes snap open. 

He grabs the hand of traitorous water, hellbent on breaking it, forcing it down and away. 

Jared lets out a pained cry. 

Los Angeles. Tattoos. Fake nose ring. 

“Where….” Jensen releases Jared’s hand. Pain erupts in the base of his skull. A sick, sinking feeling follows soon after, dragging his entire body down. He can barely move or focus his eyes. Yes, he knows Jared is there. Somewhere in front of him. And in pain as well. It’s best to assess the situation before acting, however, Jensen’s teeth ache and his muscles tense. 

They’ve been captured and caged.

It is sometime early evening--the day after Harvey’s.

“D-don’t move,” Jared whispers, his voice like a twin echo. “Just stay awake.” 

That sounds like their orders on the beach when bullets rained down harder than expected--don’t move, just try to dig a foxhole. Dig for life inside the sand. Being instantly killed by a mortar shell looked so much easier.

“Hey, stay awake. Jensen. I’ll put a nose ring on you if you don’t. Jensen.”

Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage.

“...fuck. Fuck shit fuck. Okay. Okay. Here is the deepest secret nobody knows. Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide. And this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.”

The… what?

“That’s poetry,” Jensen groans. “Why… how are you quoting poetry?” 

Jared laughs, though not as boisterous as before. “I had to memorize that in high school.”

“Uh huh.”

“After that one though, it was easier to just suck my teacher’s dick.” 

“First…” Jensen fights against his own body and the water that surrounds it. “Minute… I met you.” Up. Get up. “I wanted to… punch you.”

Another laugh, this time a little weaker. “I have that effect on people. It’s a gift.”

Jensen sits up. The world tilts and sways for a few minutes until it all converges into one masterpiece of bleeding, wounded Jared. His left hand fails to cover up the full extent of his injury--a gash on his right side. As much as Jensen hurts, he knows Jared’s pain is much more acute. 

“Okay,” Jared mumbles, his head drooping. “I kept you up. Now… now I’m gonna just... “

Assess the situation. 

Their cage seems to be made of wood and wire, shaped just like a bird’s cage. Easy to smash, to tear apart--but not at half capacity and not in his state of being. His eyes adjust to the lurid darkness around them. There’s a sense of humor at play here. Their cage rests on a bed of jagged rocks at the bottom of a gorge. Nearby, but out of sight, a waterfall works its charm and provides them with a rough river of water. 

“God dammit,” Jensen groans and sits up as straight as possible. He refrains from touching the wound on the back of his head. It’ll heal. It’ll take time, but it’ll heal. Pain and hunger remind him that he should have fed long before this. He should have taken Rei up on their offer to provide a meal. Because now, as Jared bleeds out, it is difficult ignoring the ache in his teeth.

Pushing himself away from Jared, Jensen leans heavy against the cage. 

“Stay awake.” The command has little effect on Jared. “Stay awake and I will buy you another sandwich from that place. Whatever it was called.”

“Huh?”

“Pastrami. I will buy you another pastrami sandwich.”

“Mmm.” Jared’s eyes remain closed, but at least his breathing sounds steady. “Extra coleslaw.”

“What’s a song… you know?”

“A song is a set of words set to music.”

Jensen can’t help but laugh. “Smartass.”

Hazel eyes open, dazed, clearly in pain. “Y’know, they totally ambushed us because you were starin’ at my ass.”

“I was not…” Jensen decides to let that go. “Who? Did you see them?” 

It would be good to apply pressure to the gash on Jared’s side, but Jensen doesn’t trust himself enough quite yet. How embarrassing and idiotic of him to first, let his guard down, second, be captured, and third, not follow Ama’s basic rule of feeding on a regular basis. Once his own injury heals, he’ll be able to think better. The presence of so much water irritates him. 

Multiple things need to happen all at once. 

Survival, evasion, resistance, and escape. 

Jared winces, trying to move. “I didn’t see ‘em, just heard ‘em. Fuck, this hurts.” 

“Stop moving around.” 

“I’m dying and you’re so fuckin’ bossy.”

“You are not dying.” 

“Are you suddenly a doctor?” 

“I’m keeping track of your heart rate and breathing. You’re fine.” Well, not fine, but close enough to it. Jensen looks around, his eyes darting back and forth from Jared to their cage to the rocks to the gorge and what lies beyond his immediate line of vision. He senses no other heartbeat nearby but Jared’s. Unfortunately, the rush of water complicates things. 

Easing forward, Jensen tests out the balance of the cage. Not solid, but sturdy enough. 

He crawls towards Jared, mindful of his weight and the pressure he places on the parts of the cage more waterlogged than others. They have no risk of drowning if they stay upright and on the rocks. What worries Jensen is being caught unaware again--and getting out of this shit before sunrise. 

Oh, and the very vulnerable human in front of him. 

“They’re amateurs,” Jensen whispers, placing a hand over Jared’s on the wound. “Professionals would have separated us--isolated us.”

Once warm and salty, Jared’s skin has turned cold and clammy. He lets go of his gash, willingly allowing Jensen access to it, uncaring of the risk. 

“Oh good,” Jared mutters. “A silver lining. Hey, can you see my liver? Tell it it’s been a good sport so far. It’s the real MVP.” 

“I need you to keep talking, which for you, shouldn’t be a problem.” 

“Nah, no problemo. Can I tell you how great I think your ass looks in my jeans?”

Jensen takes off the black mesh shirt he had agreed to wear, leaving him with only the thin white one. His hands move quickly to fold it. He rips Jared’s shirt open up the side, exposing the gash, and assesses the depth and radius without touching. 

“Whatever, just keep talking. Sing something.”

“What do I sing in a sitch like this? Oh, man, I know. My baloney has a first name, it’s O-S-C-A-R.”

“Really?”

“My baloney has a second name, it’s M-A-Y-E-R.” 

They can take their chances with the purity of the water later. They’re both already soaked anyway. Jensen flushes the wound, ignoring Jared’s hisses and groans. Miraculously, Jared isn’t bleeding out. This might turn up to be a nasty scar, it will definitely require stitches, but this doesn’t seem to be catastrophic. Still, a question remains. Should he or shouldn’t he? 

He has a tool, he should use it.

It opens a dangerous door.

What if Jared goes into shock? Should he wait until then? He should have told Margo and Chel where he was going. Have they noticed his absence from the hotel or assumed he made his meal last longer?

In basic training, whatever they had, they used. Without question. 

“Close your eyes,” Jensen commands, though he keeps his voice soft. “Close your eyes and think back to something positive.” 

Jared does as told. “Can I tell you about it?” 

“Yes. Keep talking. Do not open your eyes.” 

“No worries, this is nice.”

“Keep talking.” 

“When I was a kid, m-my mom took me to this big outlet mall in the Valley. I hated it. It was so boring. You ever been to an outlet mall? Nah, prolly not, who am I kiddin’. Well, it’s awful. So one day I was like, well fuck this. I hid inside one of those clearance racks and poof--I was invisible.”

Jared slurs and mangles some of his words, but he persists. 

“I heard my mom yell and yell for me. Didn’t say a peep.”

Attitude can be taught. Survival skills can be taught. 

“I… I totally thought she’d call the cops. I’d get a talking to and then maybe she’d be mad at me for a couple weeks. No dessert or something.” 

What cannot be taught is how to outlive generations, how to continue decade after decade, a perennial stranger no matter how informed or educated. To be made is to be trusted with life well past that of any normal lifespan. 

Jensen finishes. 

Not that he did much. 

He bit his pointer finger on his right hand and watched as droplets of his blood seeped into the open gash below it. A small amount, but significant nonetheless, as it was the first of his blood ever shared with another individual aside from Ama--in all these years.

“What happened?” Jensen covers the wound with the makeshift shirt-bandage and applies pressure. 

Color has returned to Jared’s face. A worn smile, too. 

“Just that. It happened like I said. No dessert for like, a whole year.” 

With a sigh, Jensen nods. “I’m sure you learned your lesson. I also said a  _ positive _ thought, didn’t I? You can open your eyes.” 

Jared looks at Jensen, then at his side to inspect the work. “Well, look at you, a regular miracle healer, huh? Just don’t send me a bill. Send it to the state of California.” 

Time in the military prepared Jensen to survive lack of water, food, sleep, and all basic comforts. He has spent so much time forgetting that history, his three thousand dollar fedora seems incredibly ridiculous now. 

He no longer has to apply pressure to Jared’s injury. Jared could hold the bandage there himself. But it does not seem right to let go just yet. 

A rush of water surprises them, slaps them around. The cage threatens to move, and subsequently take them with it. Jensen scrambles to even out the distribution of weight, pushing hard against the current and forcing his body to contort to the edges of the cage. 

These are amateurs. They didn’t bother to tie them up, drug them, or even place them in a sturdier prison. 

Sneezing and coughing from the barrage of water, Jared comments, “So, good thing? If I piss my pants, you won’t even notice.” 

Jensen prepares a response, but cuts it short.

Another heartbeat appears on his radar. Several heartbeats. And a variety of breathing patterns--some energized, others calm. He shoots a look over to Jared--silence--and mirrors the posture necessary at this point. Jared lies still, on his side, strands of wet hair covering his face. Jensen adopts a more complicated position on his back, with one arm floating free in the water and another hidden underneath himself, looped through the cage. 

Controlling his heart and breathing presents no problem. Working to appropriately cloak Jared’s is another matter entirely. 

It isn’t long until Jensen senses a soft-toed shoe confidently land on a nearby rock. 

Violence in action requires unrestricted use of speed, strength, aggression, and surprise. A willingness to strike first. Survival, evasion, resistance, and escape. 

It is Jensen’s right not to be killed and to protect who is with him. Steady, brutal, and abrupt, Jensen strikes. He breaks apart the portion of cage he’d been holding onto--and aims.

With everything he has, he slams the piece of splintered wood against the windpipe of a teenage girl. 

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

She tries to scream.

Due to pain, for the most part. 

But also to sound as an alarm. 

Jensen issues orders to Jared. They need to act fast. The others who are with her won’t be long after. Jared spreads out in the cage to counterbalance Jensen’s movements. One, two, three, Jensen executes his plan. He climbs out of the cage and catches the girl before she can hit the rocks and crumple into the river. Time seems slow in those moments, but it forces itself on him when he slips back into the cage. 

“Holy shit,” Jared gasps, coughing. “Did you kill her?!” 

“No,” Jensen snaps. “It’s nothing she can’t recover from. We need to move. There are others.”

“And how am I gonna move like that?!” 

“You’ll do it. Let’s go. Get up.” Jensen sets the girl down with as much courtesy as he was shown when he was placed in this cage. He offers a hand to Jared. “Come on--now.” 

“But my…”

“It’s healed already. Let’s  _ go _ .” 

Jared takes Jensen’s hand, but not before looking down at his injury. “What? It’s not--watch it! Don’t dislocate my shoulder.” 

“Are you a good swimmer?” Jensen can keep his balance on the rocks, sneakers be damned.

Somewhat shaking, Jared laughs. “Oh, sure, why not? I had a kiddie pool once. Didn’t have jagged rocks or anything, but… yaaaaaaah!” 

Jensen grips Jared by what’s left of his shirt and yanks them close together before plunging them into water. Thankfully, the water doesn’t run deep, and they’ve already acclimated to its temperature. Pushing away from the cage, Jensen swims with one arm and hauls Jared along with the other. He drives Jared above the surface first for air and follows seconds after. 

“Rocks!” Jared shouts, gasping for breath. “Pointy rocks!” 

Unfortunately, the warning comes too little too late. Jensen knocks against one, hard. His nose bleeds and he works to wash the blood off. Jared comes into contact with a few rocks, but maintains consciousness and doesn’t break anything. A win/win at this point.

Water tosses and bruises them. Voices from above the gorge emerge. 

Survival, evasion, resistance, and escape. 

He’ll take them underwater if he has to. Just long enough to… 

Jared and Jensen lift up from the water--at the exact same time and in the exact same height and speed. 

“You did  _ not  _ tell me you can fly!” Jared screams, going pale, floating higher and higher up the gorge. 

“I can’t!” Jensen shouts back. They both try and fail to control the movement of their limbs and adjust to the sensation. “No one can!” 

“Then what the FUCK.” 

Energy and strength return to Jensen all at once, an epic force, warm and overwhelmingly familiar. Lifted out of the gorge and set on land, some of his questions are answered. He knows that feeling. It can only come from one person and one person only.

His maker.


	13. Chapter 13

 

Ama found Jensen on Omaha Beach.

The U.S. Army lost three thousand six hundred and eighty-six soldiers at Omaha alone.

First of the Allied troops to land was the 16th Regimental Combat Team, U.S. 1st Division. Their landing was crucial to connect the U.S. troops at Utah Beach with the British and Canadian beaches to the east.

The first few units to try and land were all cut down by underestimated German defences. It was carnage.

At approximately 0730 a second wave of troops were added, launched from landing crafts battling choppy seas and onto bloodied and chaotic sand. That was Jensen’s unit. He ran, clawed his way up the beach, made it halfway to the cliffs.

It had to have been 0830 when he was shot in the shoulder. And 0831 when he was shot in his right leg. Tanks and destroyers fired from inshore. Rangers and the 116th infantry joined in--some of them reaching the top of the cliffs at Les Moulins. The entire beach was hell. Not a single inch of beach was without the sound of constant machinery, bullets, screaming--all combined with the waves of blood mixed with water. Troops were pinned down. Engineers couldn’t clear obstacles.  All the ground Jensen had managed to cover was for nothing; he was pushed back towards the shoreline.

The beach bloated, full of the dead and dying.

All the rest about that day, Jensen learned from Ama two weeks after, and then in newspapers, later on in military documents, and eventually, history textbooks.

Vierville wasn’t captured until 1100. German defences weren’t penetrated and pushed back until 1200. The first beach exit wasn’t until 1400. And those tanks and destroyers didn’t clear the beach until 1600.

At 2400, pockets of U.S. forces held a beachhead of about five miles wide and two miles deep.

Overall, it was a critical component in the liberation of Europe. It gave the Allies a foothold in Normandy to begin the march across the continent.

Jensen lay on that beach from about 0900 to 0100 the next morning.

Medics landed with them--airborne or on the beach. Aid stations were established as soon as possible, but they were soon overwhelmed. The red crosses on their helmets were supposed to free them from enemy fire. Shrapnel and shells didn’t follow that rule. Medical supplies were lost in the frenzy of fire from both sides. Some medics faced the same fate as Jensen and his unit soon after they landed. Worst wounds got first priority. Every possible method was used to transport the wounded off the beach--when they could be reached.

A medic most likely reached Jensen. But he wasn’t conscious the entire time he was on the beach, and there were others nearby who were in worse condition.

Ama found Jensen about an hour away from death. Moon and starlight seemed impossible to Jensen. How could they continue? How could his family in Texas be sound asleep in their beds?

How could a person, born in a time Jensen had only briefly read about, pick him up from his coffin of water and sand, and take him in? Not only take him in--heal him, bathe him, dress him, and completely remake him.

He woke up on a comfortable bed in a quiet, pale blue room.

An open pair of French doors led out to a small balcony. Breezes floated in. His body was cushioned by a fine mattress and plump pillows. The room was clean and mostly empty, except for a small table at his bedside with a white pitcher, china bowl, and a single fresh towel. There was no blood, no sand, no sea water. Even his fingernails had been cleaned and trimmed.

The first language he learned after the War was Portuguese.

He lived with Ama in a villa just outside Evora, Portugal. They were inland, for reasons Ama understood without needing to be told. He wore linen to keep cool in the summer and shawls to keep warm in the winter. Most of his time was spent barefoot, walking throughout the villa and its cozy gardens. Ama brought him newspapers and books and reels of film.

Every comfort was provided to him by a person aged no more than sixteen years old.

That same person lowers Jensen to the ground now, away from the hazard of the gorge, able to see clearly in the darkness of the evening.

Standing straight, shoulders back, Ama stands at a good five foot six. His face possesses a childlike roundness to it, and the auburn curls of his hair add a sort of demure innocence. Only his eyes betray that outward appearance of vulnerability.

Ama looks pissed.

The second Jensen’s feet touch the ground, Ama whips around and sends a blast of energy towards a cluster of people charging towards them.

Jensen places his hands on Jared’s shoulders.

“Calm down,” Jensen murmurs. “Calm down.”

Jared shakes harder than when they were caged and in water. Floating up in the dark some hundred feet or so seems to have frightened him. He narrows his eyes and grips onto Jensen’s arms.

“Since when… has telling anyone to calm down actually calmed them down?!”

Before Jensen can reply to that, Ama approaches them. Dressed in a simple outfit of gray trousers, black shoes, and a hazelnut sweater, Ama commands attention, his movements swift and confident. Despite his size and youthful appearance, he radiates uncompromising rage.

He looks directly at Jensen.

“Well, shall we leave or would you prefer to stay with your new friends?”

Jared beats Jensen to the punch. “Leave! I vote leave!”

Jensen’s new friends regroup and charge forth yet again, sprinting closer and closer by the second. The vibrations of their stampede can be felt on the ground.

Ama shoots a smile towards Jared and nods. “All right then, as you wish.”

The three of them disappear.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

“Jensen.”

“Yes, Jared.”

“Are you real?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Like, did I die at Langer’s from food poisoning and this is all just some ridic-as-fuck afterlife?”

“If you died from what you ate at Langer’s, you have no one to blame but yourself.”

“So I did die. Wicked.”

“You did not die, Jared.”

“Yeah, no, pretty sure I did. So when do I get to bump uglies with you?” 

“Incredible. What a way with words you have.”

“This is  _ my _ afterlife, I get to say whatever the hell I want.”

“How do you know this is your afterlife you’re in and not mine?”

“...well, I… I just do. So take your pants off.”

“No. You did not die.”

“Then explain how we got here. Wherever here is, because I sure don’t remember flying on an airplane out of that hellhole.” 

“Jared. Take a deep breath.”

“My stomach hurts.”

“Just try.”

“...there. You happy?”

“We are in Portugal. In a small town called Evora.”

“Jensen--I have never been to Portugal.”

“Welcome, then.”

“I don’t even have a passport.”

“You don’t need one.”

“Yes. Yes I do. That’s what logic tells me. Logic tells me we didn’t just… we can’t just… to go into another country you need a valid passport and I’ve never ever had one! That’s not even… with… the gorge and… then I flew… and I was in one place one second and now I. am. here.” 

“I told you to take a deep breath.”

“Oh, I’m about to go full on panic attack if you don’t explain to me how I got to Portugal right the fuck now.”

“Please, sit down. And lower your voice. There is no need to be shouting, I can hear you perfectly fine.”

“Yeah, but are you listening? Spill the beans, Jensen, all of them.”

“Ama transported us here.”

“And Ama is…?” 

“My maker.”

“Like… the dude who gave you The Dark Gift kind of maker?”

“We don’t use such a phrase, but yes. Please, sit down.”

“Standing makes me feel better. Can all of y’all teleport people?”

“No. That is specific only to our elders.”

“So how old is Ama? How old are you?”

“I died when I was twenty-six, in 1944.”

“Wow, you’re old.”

“Jared.”

“Sorry. I mean, okay, and Ama?”

“He died when he was sixteen or so. The year Alexander the Great died.”

“Oh.”

“Now will you sit?”

“O-okay. So.”

“Yes.”

“When you get to be as old as Ama, you can teleport.”

“Sometimes, yes. Most elders can, some can’t.”

“And he can make things go… move shit around.”

“I can do that--not to the extent an elder can, but you understand.”

“Make the door close.”

“Why?”

“Just do it. Please.”

“There. The door is closed.”

“Can you turn into a bat?”

“No.”

“Can elders?”

“Not that I have seen.”

“Jensen?” 

“Yes.”

“This is pretty fucking weird. I’m still pretty sure I’m dead. Like, 99% sure.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“Then you’re not dead.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Are  _ you _ dead?” 

“No.”

“Arrrrgh c’mon, explain. I’m asking so I can get info, not just one word answers.”

“Maybe this isn’t info that you need to know, Jared.”

“Nuh uh--y’all dragged me into this and I have a right to know shit.”

“Tyman really didn’t share much with you, did he?”

“No! I took him as he came to me. He didn’t go teleporting me all around the world or make me fly up some godforsaken canyon! So tell me--are you dead or are you alive?”

“Neither.”

“...”

“What?”

“You said when you met me you wanted to punch me in the face. Well, I’m talking to you and I just wanna sock you one so bad.”

“Please don’t. You’ll break your hand.”

“I’ll break my hand if I wanna break my hand.”

“I will answer your questions in greater length later, okay?” 

“I’m still mad at you, Jensen.”

“That’s fine. It’ll pass.”

“God dammit, you’re irritating.”

“I’ll ignore that. This is the room I woke up in after I was made. It’s been a while since I’ve been back here.”

“Portugal. Freaking Portugal.”

“There’s a bathroom down the hall. Do you want to shower and change clothes?”

“...is there a hairdryer?” 

“Possibly.”

“I guess.”

“Then I’ll join you.”

“Really? But you said…”

“We will not be… bumping uglies. We will be bathing and that’s it.”

“Uh huh. That’s it, he says.”

“Yes. That’s it.”


	15. Chapter 15

 

Ama keeps baths, not bathrooms, in his villas. 

The concept of a measly tub shatters when met with the spacious, sumptuous, sprawling design of the guest bath off the west wing. Simplicity and minimalism maintain a secure theme in the baths, however, subtle details enhance the decadent luxury all around. Cool, sleek limestone. Rustic, ancient marble. Sparkling quartz. Quality tile the color of the finest pearls.

All this white.

While the bright blue tint of the water bleeds over the shallow end of the bath. 

And the pump of fresh, young blood mounts in rhythm and intensity. Sunlight pours in through custom-made glass. The push of a hidden button diminishes the sun and lights fireplaces on the perimeter of the bath. Ancient tradition creates tendrils of steam within an environment dedicated to relaxation and health.

The form in front of Jensen proves itself to be in unfaltering good health.

Lightly muscled and lean, Jared removes his clothing without hesitation or anxiety. His smile becomes an investment. And his hands on Jensen’s hips cash in. 

That smile becomes a fearless grin. 

Jensen glances down at the skilled fingers over his zipper. 

Jared leans in, pleased with himself. His voice fills the space between them, quiet and rumbling. “Baby, you got me like oh.” Hands slip past fabric and around to grip the curve of Jensen’s ass. “I’m fist fightin’ with fire just to get close to you. And I run for miles just to get a taste.” 

Touch. Grope. Hold. 

These hands are warm. Jensen places his own hands on Jared’s forearms. The impeccable rhythm of Jared’s heart torments whatever restraint Jensen brought with him. It would be exquisitely unforgettable--the torrent of blood, the snap of his neck, the supple and graceful limp of drained limbs.

Their mouths meet.

Warm, charming, reckless and knowing. 

“Woo,” Jared whispers with a laugh. “Got me like oh, oh, oh. What do I gotta do to get in your motherfuckin’ pants?”

Salts and steam from the bath perfume the air, along with something more vital. More alive. It conjures and lures and seduces until they are both waist deep in flawless blue water. The faint sound of running water, the hum of their breathing, and the enduring rhythm of Jared’s heartbeat.

Instrumental touches and increasing closeness.

This could be almost tender. 

It is Jensen’s responsibility to remind Jared that this is not that. 

Deeper into the water, pushed against a solid wall of marble, Jensen pins Jared down. Their mouths, lips, teeth clash in a desperate, pulsing hurry. It might be kissing were it not so bare bones stripped down instinctive and forceful. Jared’s hands sweep the full breadth of Jensen’s body. This body without bullet holes, bruises, scars, wounds, or the salt of the Atlantic. He’s welcome to it. This is what Jared wants, Jensen can acquiesce. What is this but a body? 

What Jensen wants comes with a higher price.

That heart, which keeps pounding, hammering--pumping blood through miles of vessels with precision. What it might feel like to slow it down, gradual, captive, mesmerized by the slower lull of near death. What it might feel like to hold a fistful of this long, silky hair, while the rest of Jared rests slack. 

Jensen feels his cock grind against Jared’s. Both of them heavy, hard, and flushed. To Jensen this is secondary. Nothing in his cock compares to what he feels in his mouth, in these sharp, merciless teeth. 

Water rises in punctuating ripples and waves. Noises from the back of Jared’s throat collide with each movement of Jensen’s hips. He is not all about take. He can give. But it won’t be the kind of give hallmarked with tender kisses and affectionate murmurs. Mouth on Jared’s long, muscular neck, Jensen holds Jared up by the hips. The beat becomes unstable, urgent, explosive. Water softens some of their angles and pushes and thrusts. It also highlights the major arteries, the licentious blood lines all throughout Jared’s body. 

Jared spreads his legs open, exposing and offering himself.

He lets out a disappointed moan when Jensen doesn’t immediately respond with what he asks for, what he wants. 

Grinding their cocks together, Jensen wrings out what he wants Jared to offer in addition. 

Eyes fluttering, chest heaving, Jared comes to a vulnerable understanding. He tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and braces himself. 

Jensen becomes an architect of arteries, veins, and capillaries. With his extensive knowledge of their own separate and joined functions, and an intimate audience to the pressure and rhythm of Jared’s heart, Jensen lays his lips down on the exact spot. Jared lets out a gasp of anticipation, his cock twitching against Jensen’s stomach, toes curling. In the water, and in the heat, the carotid arteries reveal themselves. 

He allows Jared to linger in suspense--scrapes his teeth and drags his mouth over the general area, pushing Jared’s hips against the wall and making waves of water wash over their chests. 

The carotid arteries carry oxygenated, nutrient-rich blood to the brain. 

Blood from here tastes better, takes on a more potent charge despite the tougher arterial walls.

Jensen fists a handful of Jared’s hair and tilts him back into the exact angle necessary. 

Disciplined, deadly, and piercing, Jensen sinks his teeth into Jared’s neck. His sharp, powerful teeth penetrate skin like dipping a strawberry into cream. The artery gives way with ease due to the pressure and speed of his bite. 

Luscious, rich blood floods Jensen’s mouth. The first mouthful flows in like a warm, exhilarating spray--a testament to the health and determination of Jared’s pumping heart. Swallowing, he shudders against the hard, aching body pinned underneath his. Jared moans in a mixture of the most overwhelming pleasure and addictive, burning pain. 

Jared twists and turns. Fascinated and floating. 

Jensen cradles Jared’s jaw with his free hand, holding them above water with renewed and unseeable energy. He seals his mouth against the open, bleeding wound, plundering for more, drinking long pulls of hot, metallic, slightly sweet blood. The fount entices him, offers everything. Drink. Drink his fill. Take every swallow, every pull, every exquisite drop. Every human tastes different for a combination of factors. 

This blood. 

Is like liquid cinnamon. Spicy, fiery, tart.

Fingernails scrape against Jensen’s back. Hips buck against his. Shadows emerge in the background, highlighted by soft, delectable whimpers. The rise and fall of a broad, flat chest becomes an uphill, alarmingly difficult battle. 

There are so many ways to describe it. It the blood, it the action, it the feeling of restoration. It the feeling of Jared’s heart fighting against a dark, unnatural predator--and failing. Like a bird with a broken wing, the heart begins to spiral. Out of sync. Out of rhythm. 

Jensen stops.

Minutes before cardiac arrest. 

He closes the wound of his own creation and captures Jared’s mouth with his. He thrusts his tongue past Jared’s harmless teeth and allows it to bleed long enough for Jared to swallow, moan, and swallow. 

This is nothing like being made or reborn. It is only a small taste.

Resilient and stubborn, Jared locks onto Jensen’s tongue. He suckles, sliding his lips over it, and mewls when the wound closes. Jensen breaks the kiss. They pant, gasp, and share an echoing moan. The dig of fingernails in Jensen’s hips demands more. 

It’s been years since Jensen conceded to any such request or demand. 

And he will not break now.

He gives Jared something else instead. Something Jared can accept without consequence or explanation. In a series of fluid, lithe motions, Jensen lifts Jared’s hips, spreads his legs open, and fucks into him with two rough thrusts of his cock. Hazel eyes roll back. Jensen keeps his pace fast, pushing deeper and deeper into Jared with every consecutive hammer of his hips. The tight, searing pressure around his cock satisfies.

Jared rocks against Jensen’s hips, begging in hiccups and whispers. 

The bruise above that decadent carotid artery blooms blue like the water.

Every time Jared moves, Jensen feels a reckless rush in his own veins.

In a scream, Jared comes, stroking his cock, lifting their hips a fraction above water, reaching back behind himself to cling to the edge of the bath. In his incredibly human way, he comes in pristine ropes over Jensen’s stomach, creating his own mark. 

Temporary mark.

Because that is all this is. While the bruise on Jared’s neck may take a week to heal over, it will heal. And water will wash away the come in the span of just a few minutes. 

It is Jared who finishes pale and Jensen who develops color in his cheeks. 

And it’s Jared who speaks first.

“Yo,” he slurs, lids heavy. “Nosferatu. Did you come?” 

Jensen heaves an insufferable sigh and pulls out. He lets Jared drop into the water.

Flailing, sputtering, laughing, Jared manages to stand up after only a few seconds submerged under water. Jensen pushes the hair out of Jared’s eyes and makes direct, if a bit blurry on Jared’s end, eye contact.

“Do not call me that. Finish as you need to. I will meet you downstairs.” 

After drying off, Jensen retrieves an orange from a basket hidden away in a small cove. He leaves it beside a stack of towels for Jared. 

And promptly ignores the request for a cigarette instead of the orange.


	16. Chapter 16

 

Gold was imported by the boatful from Egypt. Ceramic came from Greece. Silk from China. 

As their people flourished, their coins bought more and more of these materials. Luxurious fabrics, elaborate jewelry and accessories, and intricate, hand-painted pottery. 

Of all those beautiful things, Ama misses the clothes the most. 

“I select such fine items for you and yet you continue wearing common denim and cotton,” Ama murmurs, seated at the table in the dining room. A comfortable, familiar silence occupies the villa, partnered with the occasional flutter of Ama’s newspaper.

Jensen takes a seat at his Maker’s right. He is indeed dressed in a pair of simple jeans and a black cotton shirt. Quietly, Jensen replies, “My taste doesn’t run as refined as yours.”

“Hmm. I suppose that is an acceptable answer. For the time being.” The newspaper flutters shut without Ama moving a finger. It slides aside, leaving open space between Ama and Jensen. Eternal youth guarantees Ama a slightly round face, devoid of wrinkles, sharp lines, or wear. Only his studious green eyes provide a small hint of the lifetimes he has seen. 

Ama’s bronzed skin tells of a different time when the sun was worshipped and gardens flourished. 

Anxiety thrums through Jensen’s body. 

There is much to talk about and all the words for it leave him for different pastures. 

“Where should we start, fledgling?” Ama shares a small smile, meant to put Jensen at east. “You seem to have found yourself in some rather interesting company.” 

“On multiple accounts,” Jensen admits. “We were ambushed, Ama. I failed to prevent it, but I will seek closure.” 

“No need. It is taken care of.”

Leaning forward, Jensen clears his throat. “Taken care of? You mean investigated and acquitted?”

“I mean taken care of.” Ama reaches out and takes Jensen’s hand into his own. “You needn’t worry.”

“Someone attacks me, Ama, with all due respect, I need to worry.”

With a sigh, Ama squeezes Jensen’s hand and lets go. He looks out one of the large windows, towards the cerulean night sky. The property rests in peace and quiet. From here, the garden can be seen, just as tranquil as it was in the time of the Second Great War. A healthy mix of ancient and modern seeds grow and thrive together. The ancient dragon tree stands watch amongst a host of ferns, which cover lovely glazed tiles. From time to time, Ama will tend the gardens here himself, working at midnight, often until dawn. He clips with care, waters generously, and always finds the right place for a new sapling. 

Ama glances back at Jensen. He leans over the table, elbow propped and chin resting in the palm of his hand. “Ever the soldier, aren’t we? What would you like, then? A truce? A treaty? An armistice?” 

“Answers,” Jensen states, firm and solid. “And the opportunity to defend myself--properly.” 

This response amuses Ama. He smiles and sits back in his chair, satisfied. “I would give you that in a human heartbeat. However, the matter has been resolved by myself and the leader of that bloodline. You are to focus on your original task, which it seems, has gotten complicated.” 

“A blow to the back of my head and I’m supposed to do nothing?” 

“Yes. Nothing,” Ama quips. “Absolutely nothing. I will not have you distracted. Did I not say I took care of it? Do you not trust me, fledgling of mine? Do you think I would not properly defend your honor and safety?” 

Frustrated, and caught in a bind, Jensen lowers his head. “That is not what I meant.” 

“You are healed.” 

“Yes.”

“And you are safe.”

“Yes.”

“Let us focus on those facts. After all, they wanted the same information we seek. It seems that more than our friends are looking for Tyman and three others, all of whom have gone missing within the same span of time. All different ages, backgrounds, and abilities--all gone.” The features on Ama’s face harden from concern and worry. “We cannot continue to work with discretion much longer, either in or out of our community.”

It makes sense then, that with more missing, certain bloodlines are working in desperation to find answers. But that is no reason to ambush Jensen and take him--and a mortal companion--prisoner.

Ama places his hand over Jensen’s. “Let us talk about your companion. What does he know of Tyman?”

“Enough to be the only recent lead,” Jensen relays, speaking hurriedly. “Ama, I apologize for letting my guard down, but I want concrete action. Something I can see.”

Cooly, Ama says, “Jensen, that is enough.”

“It is not enough.”Jensen works against his voice of reason. 

“I say it is.” Ama reaches out and cups the side of Jensen’s face. His voice remains firm. “I will have no more discussion about this. You need no further proof of this because I have never lied to you, nor have I ever betrayed your confidence.” Energy passes from Ama’s delicate fingertips and into Jensen’s skin. “Trust when I say that your efforts are better spent elsewhere.”

Jensen opens his mouth to press on and insist that he can easily handle both tasks; Ama’s eyes look over Jensen’s shoulder. Their speaking retreats as the loudest sound in the room. 

Jared’s heartbeat replaces it. 

Ama and Jensen take a moment to openly look over the mortal in their presence--draped in linen the color of rich, dark sangria. Tattoos and piercings take on a different shine. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Jared says, with a smile that proves otherwise. “But I’m pretty hungry. Y’know, after teleporting here and some cardio in the pool. Not that I mind any of that. Don’t get me wrong.” 

Pleased, Ama nudges Jensen’s jaw and then proceeds to walk towards Jared. Ama stops an arm’s length away in order to best observe. 

“You did a wonderful job with your chiton.” Ama admires the folds, reaching out and brushing his fingers over a few. “That’s talent, if I ever saw it.” 

Jared stands more than a foot taller than Ama. 

However, to Jensen, and perhaps even to Jared, it is very clear who is in command of the room and situation. Maybe Jared can feel the hum of energy and power that radiates from Ama. Or maybe he can tell by Ama’s smooth, porcelain movements how far away from human Ama is. 

With a blush, Jared tosses out a crooked smile. “Well, you see one gladiator movie, you’ve seen them all. This seemed like a similar concept.” He shoots Jensen a grin. “I’ve got enough experience wrestling, anyway.” 

Or it’s entirely possible that instead of reading the situation and taking into consideration who he is dealing with or in the presence of, Jared is just thinking about sex.

Jensen rolls his eyes and looks away. 

Ever the diplomat, Ama glides back to Jensen’s side and places a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be this way, Jensen. I’m sure you would look well in a chiton if only you would try it.” 

“This is not about a chiton or any other garment.” 

“So he’s usually a pouter,” Jared chimes in. “Hmm. This explains a few things.”

“Oh yes, I daresay it does.” Ama shrugs and walks away from both Jared and Jensen, towards the gardens. He looks all of sixteen years old in his garments of silk and fine linen, expertly tied the way only one who lived through antiquity can. “On that note, let us talk outside. I’m in need of some air.” 

Ama leads the way, glass doors to the gardens swinging open. He keeps his own pace. Jared hangs back, hesitates, and waits for Jensen. 

“You look like someone pissed in your mouth,” Jared rattles off.

Jensen makes a face. He follows Ama, but purposefully walks at his own leisure, in no hurry to catch up. “I believe,” he mumbles to Jared, “the expression is ‘someone pissed in your cereal.’” 

Jared busts out laughing and punches Jensen in the shoulder. “I would pay,” he wheezes, in between laughs, “to have recorded that. Damn. And no, no, I said it right. If someone pisses in your cereal, dude, you can just get new cereal. If someone pisses in your mouth though?” Jared shakes his head. “No matter what you do, how much mouthwash you chug, you’ll always know--someone pissed in my mouth.”

“How… how can you say things like this? At such a time?” Jensen gestures towards the lush gardens that surround them. “In such a place? In this company?” 

Like any mortal human, Jared laughs off the dangers of what he doesn’t know. 

“You fuck exactly the way you act,” he comments. “You’re good at it, no worries there.” Plus one lewd and quite obvious glance at Jensen’s crotch. “But you’re so tightly wound. You don’t miss a beat. You don’t let yourself just… fuck. And you don’t let yourself just be. Loosen up.” Of course, Jared snorts. “Well, that’s mainly my job, but I’m a size queen so I can only blame myself.” 

He has no idea--not even the slightest--about the rich history of the ferns and trees and fragrant flowers that surround them. No idea about what these seedlings had to endure to make it to this soil and to this day and age. Not the slightest clue or care about the use of irrigation canals or mud brick or rectangular pools of cobalt water. Not a single thought in his head about the efforts of a people who invented the word ‘paradise,’ from the old Persian word Pardeiza. Nothing about Pasargadae or the Achaemenid Empire or even the era of al-Andalus. 

Jared walks ahead of Jensen only to face him as he walks backwards. 

“So,” Jared says, his arms swinging freely at his sides, “you think there are any good pastrami sandwiches in Portugal?”


	17. Chapter 17

 

Portugal reminds Ama of Persia. 

For that reason, and its reliable neutrality in worldly affairs, Ama chose this as one of his seven compounds and estates across the world. 

It is also an ideal climate for a garden.

Persian gardens are amongst the most beautiful in all of history. They take into account geometry and shapes, structures, irrigation systems, network and construction. Every design quality serves beauty, practicality, and nature. In a Persian garden, rhythm and harmony must flow as freely as water. Hierarchy. Symmetry. Centrality. Gardens are the purest of human pleasures. 

Ama describes the four sacred elements and their usage in design. 

Jared, quite surprisingly, listens. 

“It was my job, lest you should think I did not contribute to the household, to help my father with the gardens.” Ama perches against a lapis fountain. Red lanterns, lit by tea light candles, add a warmth to Ama’s skin. “We were West of Susa, near the Kossaians mountains. The land I was born on, grew up on, had been in our family for eight generations. My father was Bijan, son of Dalir, of the Pasargadai. None of these names are important anymore. They were once, and it’s nice to say them out loud from time to time. 

"Sunlight was extremely critical in the structural design. All our textures and shapes were chosen specifically to harness light. And shade was equally as precious. Trees and trellises, pavilions and walls, it all worked together. I remember planting trees in a ditch--a juy--and I listened to my father explain how it would prevent the water from disappearing. A juy made it possible for the tree roots to drink.

"Court and country lords passed through to visit my father. We were comfortable. And visitors enjoyed our inner courtyard. I admired our visitors and their stories of the Palace and the world beyond our place in it. They called Susa the city of lilies. My father promised to show me truth to the name.

"Now, some may tell you there are only two styles of Persian gardens. They are wrong. There are six. 

"Hayat, Meidan, Chahar Bagh, Park, and Bagh. 

"My favorite was the Chahar Bagh, which is a little more private. We had three gardens of different styles. I spent the most time in that one. It’s where ambassadors spent the most time.

"I was ten, when I was taken.

"And fourteen when the Macedonians arrived. Sixteen when I ceased having a reflection in the mirror. And I wouldn’t see the sun for another two hundred years after. The sun has little effect on me as I am now, but I’m more fond of a garden at night. That’s how I met Tyman--in a Roman garden at midnight. Their gardens never had the elegance of ours, but we weren’t focused on that.

"Our focus was on how we had managed to cheat not only death, but age.

"However,” Ama sighs. “Perhaps those details are best saved for another time.”

Jared huffs and holds his arms out. “That’s it? You’re gonna stop at that cliffhanger?” He looks at Jensen for further explanation. Jensen simply shrugs and defers to Ama. It’s not the rest of his story to tell.

With a pained sigh, Jared stands and paces around the fountain. He glances back and forth between Ama and Jensen. “Look--it’s not like I don’t know what you are. I’ve seen the Superman strength, the reflexes, and how sleepy y’all get at sunrise. But if Tyman is as old as you, couldn’t he defend himself? It’s not like I could shoot him and drag him off somewhere and not see shit happen as a result.” He crosses his arms over his chest, resembling a Roman guard. “Right?” 

“You’re assuming,” Jensen starts, “that we’re infallible. We are not.” 

“Woah,” Jared snips. “Don’t say too much all at once. You might hurt yourself.” 

Calm down. Exercise restraint. At some point, no one knew anything. It’s difficult to figure out how much to tell Jared and how much to keep insisting to Ama that the attack on them was coordinated and planned--poorly executed, but still--and it warrants more thought. It’s difficult to tell others what is going on when Jensen doesn’t have the whole picture either. 

Ama chimes in, responding lightly. “I’ve always been fascinated by Superman. He has so many obvious weaknesses.” 

Jared raises his arms. “What? No, no, no. That’s not what you focus on when you talk about… gah. I’m… not making any sense, am I?” 

“Yes,” Ama laughs. “You are. Go on.” 

Less amused, Jensen takes a few steps away from Ama and Jared. 

“Superman isn’t just the guy who punches things and wears a cape. Didn’t you guys see the movie Kill Bill? C’mon, Jensen, if you saw Legally Blonde, you had to have seen Kill Bill.” 

Jensen ignores the question.

“You might want to give him some space.” Ama invites Jared to sit next to him on the fountain. “I’ve just told him no. That might take some time to sink in.” 

“Sheesh. What a pouter. Okay, look, even though Superman fucks shit up sometimes, and there’s the whole Kryptonite thing…”

“You’re not helping your case,” Ama murmurs, smiling. 

Jared waves his hand around. “Forget all that--my point is that no matter what villain comes after him, no matter how big the threat, he always finds an out. Because he’s Superman. So are you telling me that Tyman wouldn’t be able to find an out?”

A pause of silence causes Jensen to tune back into the conversation. He looks to Ama, worried that Jared has crossed a line. Out of all the ancient families and bloodlines, Jensen knows Ama has the most patience with humans and fledglings. Maybe that patience comes from being made so young. But Jensen understands not to test it. Jared doesn’t possess the same understanding. 

Ama reaches over and places a hand on Jared’s shoulder--his expression somber. 

“This is nothing to say of Tyman’s skills or abilities. This is everything to say that those who are responsible, have discovered Kryptonite and have already used it against him.” Ama stands and walks away from the fountain, back towards the villa. “The best we can hope for is his quick and painless death. The worst, I fear, may affect all of us. Good night, Jensen. Jared, we can continue talking in the morning.”

Before Ama disappears from sight, Jared calls out, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”

Ama looks back, gives Jared a small smile and a nod, and slips back into the villa without a sound.

Almost immediately after, Jared turns back to Jensen. Grinning, Jared announces, “I quoted Nietzsche. Boom.” 

Jensen returns the announcement by rolling his eyes. Yes, he got the Nietzsche quote. 

Jared lets out a breath he had been holding in and runs a hand through his hair. He rubs his chin and paces around the fountain. His shoulders cut a divine shape against the illuminated water. Brow furrowed, he works through a series of problems in his mind, the wheels most obviously turning. What he expects to deduce, Jensen can only guess. 

Sunrise sweeps closer to Evora--a mere three hours away. Jensen picks up a smooth stone, polished by the fountain. 

He chucks it at Jared’s head and hits his target. 

After a series of whining and grumbling, Jared eventually follows Jensen back inside the villa. 


	18. Chapter 18

 

Natural order dictates that Jensen should never have left that strip of beach in Normandy. 

He should have died then and there, one of the many bodies entrenched in sand, blood in his mouth, the foam of the ocean frothy and frigid over his stiff, immobile limbs. That was the hand life had dealt him--grow up in Texas, see a small piece of the world, and die by the sea.

On his first visit to Portugal, it was explained to him, in a sweet and soft way, that he would never know the horrors of age. He would never see his skin wrinkle, never worry about an ailment, housing, or expenses. Those human burdens were lifted from him, as were the physical needs to eat food, drink water, and dispense waste. He could eat. He could drink. His body could function in most ways as it used to. But it would never change. The world would end and begin all over again in revolutions, endless cycles, constant and enduring. If he could adapt and accept external transformation, and learn to understand his lack of alteration, his nightmares and anxiety might cease. With distance, the War may never again cause him stress. 

Ama sends them back to New York for the time being. 

He was kind enough to present them with options--New York or London--and Jensen chose American soil. Before they departed in a private car, Ama embraced Jensen and presented him with final commands.

Trust no one.

Place the search for Tyman on pause.

Report in often.

Keep the human close.

With nature’s natural order exists each individual’s natural order. Jensen is used to entail traveling solo. Every now and then he would check in with his Master, share the slivers of time and place he’d discovered, and jet to wherever he pleased. In his fine suits and custom hats, he was a gentleman of the world. He caught glimpses of the changes in technology in a variety of settings. It gave him a deep sense of nostalgia to see the sun, in full technicolor, on a big screen theater in Seoul. 

His parents thought horseless carriages and radios and talkies had been radical, terrifying signs of progress.

On the private jet to New York, Jared fiddles with the music system on board.

Perhaps Jensen should find this behavior amusing or charming. Maybe he should also have brought ear plugs. Two seconds away from snapping at Jared to pick a station or walk the rest of the way to New York, through the entire bloody Atlantic--when Jared stops at a peculiar station.

Overall the Metallica or Queen or Madonna or Green Day, Jared chooses pure, dreamy nostalgia.

This was music.

Songs that won the war.

Vera Lynn sings, her voice rich and clear, absolutely flawless. 

Resting on a lounge, flat on his back, Jared sings along. “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when. But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.” 

Their voices mingle. Past and present. Dual vocal ranges, sensitive, easy tones. Each toss in their own improvisations, develop and birth unique contributions to the song with each note. Jared matches the tempo exactly, his stomach rising and falling with the breath it takes to do so. He doesn’t add effects to his voice.

“Keep smilin’ through, just like you always do. Til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away.”

He sings with whatever he has, in its truest form--consistent and natural.

“So will you please say hello to the folks that I know? Tell them I won’t be long. They’ll be happy to know that as you saw me board, I was singing this song. We’ll meet again. Don’t know where, don’t know when. But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.” 

Seventy-three years without the sun and Jensen can almost feel it on his skin.

Jared’s hair drapes off of the lounge like a wave of tinted hickory. Light from the stereo screen washes over Jared’s tattoos and piercings, adding warmth and highlights of color. 

Eyes closed, Jared matches Vera note for note in the final lines.

Vera herself sang this song to Jensen’s company before they shipped out for Normandy.

“We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when. But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.”

Jensen slips himself into Jared’s alignment. Without needing to touch the screen, he changes the station. Something or other by Brahms plays; Jensen doesn’t care what it is as long as there are no lyrics. No other voice but his and the human in front of him. 

Sitting on the edge of the lounge, Jensen meets Jared’s eyes. 

Cheeky, Jared concocts a lopsided smile, tongue slightly peeking out from his teeth. He neither forces nor applies pressure to his voice, that much Jensen can tell. It’s natural. 

It follows its own natural order.

“Look at that,” Jared murmurs, stretching his legs. “You’re not pouting anymore.”

Once again, Jensen rolls his eyes. 

He places his fingers above the lower part of Jared’s neck, above the desirable carotid artery. Young, fresh, lively blood pumps hard through this tributary. Jensen could drink every drop, fill himself to the top, take and take. He might never have to drink again.

He could siphon all the air from Jared’s chest in a series of pleasurable gasps.

One puncture of his deadly teeth and he could pay close, intimate attention to the basic construction of Jared’s heart until it ceased beating. 

That is Jensen’s natural order.

Jared expands the range and depth of Jensen’s thoughts by exposing his throat as he did in the baths. He offers up a different way of listening to the performance of his heart. Not just through fingertips. His eyes invite, his pulse pounds, and Jensen internalizes each rhythmic strategy to Jared’s heart.

Bringing Jared close to him--chest to chest--Jensen moves with intent and hunger. Proficient, his teeth find their exquisite mark, sinking down and into Jared’s salty, sweet skin. Jared moans, hips arching towards Jensen. He is all of Jensen’s musical enjoyment. 

And while Jensen doesn’t understand the whole of why that came to be, he understands the power of submission, music, and blood.


	19. Chapter 19

 

“Jensen.”

“Jared.”

“I hate New York City.”

“Don’t say that too loud, they’ll come out of the sewers for you.”

“Oh my god, you made a joke!” 

“Would you keep your voice down? You chose this restaurant.”

“I need sustenance. Sushi, sushi, sushi.” 

“Yes, you are ordering sushi.”

“This place is so swanky. You know, uh, my check got waterlogged.”

“I will write you a new one.”

“Phew. And you know, I don’t have any pocket money on me right now.”

“I will pay for your meal.” 

“Great, otherwise we’ll be washing dishes. Hey. Why did Dracula go to the dentist?”

“Please, no.”

“Fang decay. Heh.”

“...”

“What do you call a duck with fangs?”

“No.”

“Count Quackula.”

“I will leave you here and make you pay for your own meal.”

“Sheesh. Why doesn’t Jensen have any friends?”

“You just don’t stop, do you?”

“Because he’s a pain in the neck!”

“Eat your disgusting raw fish.”

“Mmph. On it. This is so fucking good. You sure you don’t want a bite? Look, this one has cooked shrimp, you might like that.”

“No, thank you.”

“Uh huh, that’s right.  _ You _ ate on the plane.”

“...yes. Thank you.”

“How often do you… need to eat?”

“Everyone is different. I do not eat that often.”

“Why’s that? Do I taste good? I mean, I’m a delicacy.”

“You taste like O positive.”

“Holy shit, you can tell?”

“I can tell a lot of things. You have rice on your shirt.”

“I’m savin’ it for later.”

“Incredible.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“No, but when has that stopped you?”

“You’re learning--that’s good. So, tell me, why don’t you like, lurk in graveyards or go to high school? Or hang out with Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt? Do you like New Orleans? I hear it’s fucking humid out there.”

“All of your ideas of what I should do are disturbing.”

“But c’mon, there’s gotta be some truth to that shit. How else would it get written?”

“The power of imagination, Jared.”

“You don’t like answering questions about yourself, huh?”

“Not particularly.”

“I’ll make it simple. Just say yes or no. New Orleans?”

“No.”

“Graveyards?”

“No.”

“Silver?”

“No.”

“Hypnotism?”

“Not my area of expertise, but yes.”

“Shapeshifting?”

“No.”

“Are you always this talkative?” 

“Yes.”

Jared rolls his eyes and stuffs a piece of sushi into his mouth. 


	20. Chapter 20

 

Chel chooses the hotel.

The NoMad is housed in a turn of the century Beaux-Arts building, fully restored, of course. With interiors done by a French designer, it offers a fresh, youthful take on the classic grand hotels of Europe. All one hundred and sixty-eight rooms evoke residential feelings, each of them boasting hand-selected furnishings and custom artwork. Everything the modern New Yorker could want waits within these rooms. Clawfoot bathtubs, king-sized beds, down comforters, embossed leather headboards, mahogany writing desks, maple hardwood floors, curated art, vintage Heriz rugs, twenty-four hour room service, and a fully stocked minibar. All of this on the intersection of Broadway and 28th Street, just north of Madison Square Park.

It also has the advantage of being close to the sushi restaurant, the only sushi restaurant open this late at night within three miles of their booked accommodations. Jared spots a Korean fried chicken place within a stone’s throw of the NoMad. Jensen steers him away from the street and towards the lobby.

With an hour and a half until sunrise, Jensen wants enough time to settle into the room, take a hot bath, and figure out an agenda for tomorrow evening. And how to supervise Jared during the day.

Chel rushes Jensen, sweeping him into an embrace that is uncharacteristically familiar.

“We were so worried,” she huffs and gives Jensen a gentle shove. “We’re not much of a team if you go out exploring on your own, only to get captured and taken hostage. Shame on you. We could have covered you--if we had known.”

Looking almost as out of place as Jared, Margo shakes Jensen’s hand. Dressed in black from head to toe, with a pair of severe sunglasses on, she appears just as stoic and calm as in all their previous interactions. Chel asks for details. Jensen assures her that details, at the right time and place, will be freely given. The lobby at two in the morning is neither the right time nor place.

Jensen takes a step back and introduces Jared, who shakes hands with Chel and Margo and manages to keep his responses short and appropriate.

“This your food,” Margo comments, her eyes making quick work of details. “From hotel in California.”

“Yes,” Jensen replies, somewhat hesitant. “And he is our guest. A friend of both Tyman and Ama.”

“Hello,” Jared chirps and shakes hands with Margo and Chel. “Very nervous human here, in the minority, but also full of sushi and some sake so it’s all good.” Fidgeting in his borrowed jeans and shirt, Jared rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Chel shoots Jensen a sly smile while Margo attempts to piece together facts, body language, and scents. Before a multitude of comments can be made or assumptions drawn, Jensen quickly determines a meeting time for the evening. Jared, of course, suggests the place so that he can get dinner while they talk. Margo volunteers to scan the restaurant ahead of their arrival.

“You think we’ll need reservations?” Jared places that question out into the universe.

Jensen, Chel, and even Margo share a look between the three of them. Chel pats Jared on the shoulder and shakes her head. “I’d worry about other things,” she murmurs. “Like spies and assassins and kidnappers.”

“Shit,” Jared laughs. “When you put it that way, maybe I’ll just hitchhike back to LA.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Jensen gives Jared a light push towards the bank of elevators. “Same rules as last time--you do not leave the room, under any circumstances. Good night, Chel, Margo. Thank you for meeting us here.”

Of all the things in the world to happen as they approach the elevators, Jensen does not expect this one.

Margo approaches, silent and stoic. She shoulders off her leather jacket and offers it to Jared.

Different families and bloodlines retain different customs and traditions. They each have their own way of communication, of living, of passing on information and legacies. Some Masters or heads of families prefer for their fledglings to remain physically close at all times. Others approach a fledgling’s education by encouraging them to travel and experience the world through their new senses. Margo has traveled far in her three hundred years of newborn life. She is a fine traveler, explorer, and fighter; her jacket serves as one of the most important and iconic pieces of her wardrobe.

She does not mince words.

“Wear it, at all times,” she commands. “Bulletproof. Warm. You will need it.”

Jared nods and slips it on. It’s a good fit. A touch heavy, Jensen can tell, but he’ll adjust. “Thanks. Thank you.”

Eyeing him with care, Margo gives a curt nod. “Good. Now you smell less.”

In the elevator and the hallway to their suite, Jared demands to know what she means by smelling less. Does he actually smell? Does he really reek? How can anyone expect him not to be a little ripe after a plane ride across the Atlantic Ocean? Maybe it’s New York that smells. It’s probably New York. What with all the sewers and rats. And she said he smells _less_ , which means he still smells some. He didn’t have deodorant at Ama’s and what was he supposed to do? Ask Ama to run out to the nearest 7-11 and pick him up a stick? It’s all Jensen’s fault he stinks. Jensen hasn’t even so much as offered to buy Jared any necessities. His clothes from their lovely time in the gorge were trashed and he couldn’t wear the chiton out in public. Well, he tried, and Jensen said no. He could make easy money off of New Yorkers by posing as a gladiator and charging ten bucks for a selfie or a picture. If Jensen hadn't found that idea so objectionable, then maybe Jared could buy his own damn stick of…

“You are impossible,” Jensen blurts out, opening the door to their suite. “If I had known that you were going to talk so much, I would never have bought you that damn pastrami sandwich.”

“But you did,” Jared snips, smiling. “No take backsies. I’m all yours.”

They stand face to face in the entryway of the suite. Luxury and finery all around them. Jensen wants a hot bath and a restful sleep. Then, he wants to dress in his own clothes, which he’s having shipped to the hotel by courier. He wants all his own details as he likes them in order to proceed with the next step of his plans.

He wants to shut Jared up in one oddly specific way.

He plants a kiss on that mouth--on that talkative, crude, loud, and alluring mouth.

It’s true that Jared does smell. Maybe that’s not the best way to put it. He possesses the distinct scent of a living, breathing, mortal human. With the jacket on, that scent is diminished. Jensen can still pick up notes of sweat, vanilla lotion, lube, and still something else, almost like bergamot.

Separated, Jared smiles.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “That’s a good way to shut me up.” He looks towards the bed. “Shall we?”

Nightmares of the ocean have been kept at bay. Jensen wonders if it’s from the intake of blood. Or the focus of his energy in other places--distracting places. Not hats or suits or shoes or travel. Not even the pump of blood from the beating heart before him, with its infinite gradations and rhythms.

He focuses on Jared.

On hitting the notes between them flawlessly, perfectly in tune, right in the center of the pitch. Grinding their hips together, locking their mouths, closing any and all space that threatens closeness and proximity to skin. He shoves and pushes and manhandles Jared against the writing desk near a pair of French doors that lead to a private balcony. Sounds of New York can be heard, all the taxis and music and heels on the pavement.

Even the reliable set of principles he had molded himself over, threatened to flood his mind.

Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage.

Jared bites down on Jensen’s bottom lip and growls. He pushes himself onto the desk, sitting with his long, lean legs open, face flushed and hair tumbling over his shoulders, out of its tie.

Aligned with an internal beat, Jensen fucks Jared with a smooth, rough, even delivery of thrusts.

It is unexplainable, unimportant, how most of their clothes disappear. Jensen doesn’t care. All of those finer, necessary details--lube, positioning, breathing--fade once he wrings the first gasp out of Jared. He buries his cock deep, stretching Jared open, his cock heavy and hard. Jared wraps his arms around Jensen’s shoulders. They kiss. Teeth clicking, Jensen’s teeth scraping against Jared’s tongue and lips. Jensen laps up small trickles of heady blood, desperate to get closer, to soak up with heat and sweat from Jared’s skin.

Moaning, Jared moves as much as his position on the desk allows. He welcomes every brutal, explosive thrust, and improvises with angles and depth.

They are frantic. Jensen draws in air and exhales something similar to Jared’s name, something slurred, something greedy, longing, and ravenous. Hot blood. Hot bodies. They are less precise and more a series of variations in volume, movement, and dynamics. With one hand, Jensen gropes Jared, digs his fingertips into the generous flesh of his hips and thighs. With the other, Jensen strokes Jared’s cock, marveling at how simultaneously soft and hard it feels in his hand. Come makes his hand sticky. Their cocks work and respond to each other in sync. Every thrust into Jared and Jared’s cock bobs, twitches, and aches.

This is a hot art form.

It thrives on intensity. The louder, the better.

Jared shouts, and comes all over Jensen’s hand. He spills ropes of it, not at all weakened by their previous activity on the plane. His eyes flutter and his pink mouth forms an alluring circle. Sweat trickles from his neck to his chest. He shudders and shakes, clenching around Jensen’s cock in a series of yearning aftershocks.

This is like music.

Pace, tempo, control, rhythm, dynamics, addictive intoxication from it all.

Jensen comes. In a very human way. In a way his body has not been capable of for many years. The mark on Jared’s neck hasn’t healed yet. It stands out, all blooming contrast, visual proof of what Jared gave and what Jensen took. Jensen drags his teeth over and around the mark, his hips working in circles, fucking Jared while leaving harsh, fierce bruises on his neck. He comes inside Jared, physical and emotional feelings rushing back to him. His shoulders and thighs ache. He feels sated and starved all at the same time.

Tender, more so than he needs to be, Jared runs his hands through Jensen’s hair and then over Jensen’s chest and torso. His fingers linger over Jensen’s right side.

He can’t possibly know that is where Jensen took his first bullet.

A tinge of sadness, a trigger of the ocean, the sand, the screaming, causes Jensen’s muscles to tense.

Out of breath, Jared presses their foreheads together. He lifts his fingers from Jensen’s sides to his jawline, thumbs resting on his sideburns.

Voice brassy and low, Jared murmurs, “Every time you move, I’m alive.”

This is like blues in the night.

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

 

The first ten years were difficult. 

Bad times seemed to only get worse. The War ended with an exorbitant price of life--civilian and military. What had once been top secret information was then published into textbooks, lectured at universities, talked about on the radio and on the evening news. It was common knowledge that there had been five landing zones. The Americans would attack at Utah and Omaha, the British at Gold and Sword, and the Canadians at Juno. Children wrote essays about dummy camps, planes, and tanks in Kent and Essex, efforts to deceive the Germans into thinking the invasion would be elsewhere. 

Learning and understanding his new abilities and limitations caused him more frustration than relief. Heightened senses meant heightened sensitivity. How could he tune out the noise of the world and still be in tune with it? Yes, he could move with a speed and flexibility he’d never dreamed of, but what good was it if he kept falling over himself? 

Composure and confidence came at a snail’s pace even as the years passed and his body did not change.

In fact, the only control in that whole mess of the first decade and every subsequent decade after, was his own body. Not a hair on his head grew longer, grey, or fell out. Not another wrinkle developed on his face. His musculature did not change one way or the other. Even the shape of his face saw not a single shift. 

Time passed. From afar, instructed on the devastating consequences of interfering, Jensen watched as the people in his former life aged and died. Parents, brothers, friends, ex-lovers, idols, role models.

Jensen left the States after his parents passed. He went back to Ama in Portugal. He saw every place he’d only ever read or heard about as a kid. Egypt. China. Russia. India. Brazil. Paris, when he could set foot back in France, and Texas after that.

For the past two years--until last month--Jensen had divided his time between Texas and Massachusetts. Dallas and Cambridge, to be exact. It seems like a blip in time now.

He had been introduced to Eustice at a Harvard function, a lecture on psychology and the Declaration of Independence. One of Rei’s companions made sure that Jensen met Eustice. Instantly, they hit it off. They had conversations about the lecture, Eustice’s majors in Philosophy and Political Science, the state of the world, and where to get the best coffee in Cambridge. It was Eustice who encouraged Jensen’s love of hats and tailor made suits. Eustice also knew the best shops in Cambridge and Boston, and invited Jensen to stay at his parents’ cottage in Martha’s Vineyard. They drank champagne in the early evening, listening to NPR at night, and talked until morning.

“Wow, that dude sounds super boring.” Jared stretches out next to Jensen in bed, naked, freshly showered. “I can tell you where to get the best foot long hotdog in LA. When you eat it, it kinda looks like you’re deep throating a massive dildo.” 

Jensen hits Jared in the face with a pillow and sits up. “You told me to tell you ‘stuff’ and that’s the response I get?” 

“Jeez, sorry. Just being honest.” 

Jared’s hip bones catch Jensen’s attention for a brief moment. He can’t afford distraction. The sun has just set and they are due to meet Chel and Margo in the lobby in an hour. 

Catching onto where Jensen’s attention lies, Jared rolls over onto his stomach. This gives Jensen a good view of his ass, which is not at all helpful in preventing distraction. 

“So what happened? Did y’all have a fight? Did one of you out snob the other? Did he wear an ascot?”

“Ye--why would I tell you that? No, we did not have a fight. He simply… chose another.” Jensen lies back down, hands behind his head. “He met someone older, with more experience.”

Jared shakes his head. “Sucks, dude.”

“Yes. Yes, it did suck.”

Hazel eyes take generous liberties of their own. Jensen does nothing to stop them. 

“Hey.”

“Hmm.”

“Who did Dracula take on a date?”

“Not this again.”

“C’mon. Who did Dracula take on a date?” 

“...his ghoul friend,” Jensen grumbles.

Jared cackles into his pillow and nudges Jensen’s shoulder. “Not bad! Okay, okay. What do you give Dracula when he has a cold? ...coffin drops! Okay, one more. One more, I promise. Who is Dracula most likely to fall in love with?”

Jensen raises his eyebrows and awaits the critical answer.

Sitting up, Jared holds his arms out and points to himself. “The boy necks door.” 

History has a tendency to repeat itself. Jensen aims and throws a pillow directly at Jared’s face. He hauls himself out of bed before Jared can tell another joke. His mission is to take a hot bath, dress, and prepare for the evening. His clothes arrived; Jared set the suitcase nearby. Jared slept until noon, when he ordered trays of room service since cleared out. He took the liberty of working with the front desk to order and deliver to the room clothes and shoes for himself. After another nap, he woke up beside Jensen, took a shower, and returned back to bed by sunset. 

“I’m taking a bath,” Jensen announces, walking unclothed throughout the suite. “I expect you to be ready to go as soon as I am.” 

“I’ll join you.”

“You just had a bath.”

“Nope--I had a shower. Totally different. Completely different. Couldn’t be any more different. Different as different can be.”

“Fine, if it will get you to stop talking.”

“Woo! Jared 2, Jensen 0.” 

“Where did that extra point come from?”

Jared stands in the doorway to the bathroom. He smiles, terribly proud of himself. “Because I’m gonna get some hubba-hubba in the tubba-tubba.”

There aren’t enough pillows in the world to throw at Jared.


	22. Chapter 22

 

On the way down to the lobby, Jared teaches Jensen something new.

He shows off a folded houndstooth bandana in the back pocket of his black jeans. 

“It’s worn on the right,” he details. “You know what it means?”

“I do not.”

“Oh my god, you  _ don’t  _ know everything.”

“The sooner you get it out of your head that we are these perfect, infallible beings, the better. Even the eldest and wisest of us make mistakes.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, sure. Here, I got you one. Fold it. Yep, just like that.”

“Why is mine a different color? An ugly color. This doesn’t match with anything I have on.”

“Just be grateful I didn’t get you a red one.”

“That would not have matched either.”

“Put yours on the left. Great.” 

“I understand exactly none of this.”

“I’m getting to that part. I just wanna savor this moment in time.”

“Did you have a job or some form of employment before I bought you that sandwich?”

“Sure. I had sex with men for money. Occasionally, I sang at gigs. You know, it’s a living.”

“Which did you prefer?”

“Well,” Jared smirks. “If I saw a guy wearing this color, I’d totally prefer the having sex for money gig.”

“Spill. Now.”

“Houndstooth worn on the right means willing to be bitten.” 

“Appropriate, I suppose.”

The elevator opens to the lobby. Jared steps out first. 

“Mustard yellow worn on the left means eight inches and hung. I’ll take that over a concert gig any day. Or night.” 

Jared winks and leads the way towards the restaurant. 


	23. Chapter 23

 

Jensen has always enjoyed observing the cities and landscapes around him in his travels. New York offers a hearty supply of visuals for those willing to take them in. Iron fences. Cinder block walls. Crumbling, coarse pavement. Two traffic cones tied together with caution tape. Leaning electric poles. Milk crates and wood pallets stacked behind brick buildings in alleyways. 

Facades and foundations and feathered foliage. 

There is power in observation. It changes the face of the world. 

Fried chicken, cold beer, the smell of tobacco and coffee from a nearby cafe, soft yet determined music from a street performer spilling into establishments on Madison Street. The way Jared has tied his hair back tonight, the way it looks as silky as the finest fabrics from ancient times, the way his eyes shine like tempered glass.

Three individuals from American bloodlines and families have gone missing within the past week. 

Chel distributes details while Margo keeps a close watch. Her eyes scan the restaurant and her senses take care of the street outside. Each individual has their own strengths and abilities when brought into this life without death or age. Some gifts are given outright. Others develop over time. The gifts Ama possesses, with his two thousand years of existence, are different than those of Tyman or any other ancient. Not that there are many. 

Maybe ten. 

A great majority of fledglings die within the first thirty years of their new lives. Sometimes they are preyed on, lured by older vampires and taken advantage of. Most often, however, they simply cannot cope with guilt--such a common part of being human yet not being human.

Those who are made are chosen with a great deal of care. 

Those who are trusted are trusted with blood.

Before they left the hotel, Jensen healed up the bruises and puncture wounds on Jared’s neck. He applied two drops of his blood onto Jared’s skin and watched the healing process. It took seconds. Ama once said this works like a disease, an infection. Not everyone survives it. 

Jensen stresses his and Jared’s kidnapping in Los Angeles. Was that an attempt to take them as it seems Tyman and others have been taken? Why allow them to see their faces? Why not separate them? Why not drain, maim, dismember, or set them on fire? Expose them to the sun? Why keep Jared when he is human and not part of this conflict?

Neither Chel nor Margo have answers. They’ve been looking. Listening. Asking questions with even more discretion than they did about Tyman. No one knows anything. No one will share anything. And it seems, as disappointing and depressing as it is, the ancients and elders are either unwilling to pry or uninterested in helping.

“Someone is out to get y’all,” Jared points out, finishing a plate of chicken. He licks his fingers. “So what are y’all gonna do about it when shit hits the fan?”

“Destroy them,” Chel answers. “Well, maybe we’ll ask some questions first.” 

“We do not have orders to destroy anyone,” Jensen reminds his group. “We only have instructions to search and rescue.”

Margo glances at their group for a brief second. “My Maker trusts our decisions.”

Chel nods. “Mine too.”

“Two out of three,” Jared comments. “That’s a majority vote.”

Looking down at the table, Jensen clenches his fists. “I am bound to respect the orders that I have been given.” Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. These are the values to sustain a soldier in times of both peace and conflict.

For the first time in his new life, Jensen questions Ama’s decisions and orders. But can he truly break them? It would be breaking rank. It reeks of treason. Disrespect. Dishonor. Cowardice. Treason, however, always depends on perspective. If the elders keeps brushing off this problem or resist sharing deeper information, then they hnave no choice but to act alone.

Jensen’s phone rings and shatters the racing of his thoughts. 

He answers it only because of the familiar number.

“Rei?” 

“Jensen--Jensen are you there?” Their voice crackles due to the connection, but Jensen can still pick up on the level of distress present. 

“Yes, I am, quite literally. I’m in New York. What is wrong?”

“Oh, thank goodness. I--I don’t know who else to turn to. Can you meet me? It’s about Marty.”

“Of course. When and where?”

The connection crackles. “Riverside, now, please. Please hurry.” 

Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. These are the values to sustain a soldier in times of both peace and conflict.

Jensen leaves the tip and the four of them leave the restaurant. 


	24. Chapter 24

 

Riverside Park stretches from 72nd to 158th Streets along the Hudson River. It is a mere four miles away from the restaurant. By cab, the trip might take twenty minutes. By subway, the same.

Margo has a better idea.

In three minutes, she gathers up two motorcycles. Jared begs to drive one. Jensen votes him down. His reflexes aren’t fast enough for the speed they need to achieve. Pouting, Jared asks about Jensen’s plan. What if Rei is hurt? What if they’re in danger? How are they going to handle that? How will Jared defend himself if everyone involved can move ten times faster than he can? Is Jensen sure he knows how to drive a motorcycle? 

Jensen hands Jared a flare gun and a helmet, and tells him to hold the fuck on.

New York City becomes a blur. 

Whipping and weaving through Midtown traffic, Jensen presses the motorcycle to its limits. He follows Margo down 27th to make a hard right onto 16th. Their tires screech at the left turn onto 29th. Traffic near 8th changes their course. Margo bears down and tilts her motorcycle, Chel moving in sync as her passenger, and completes a sudden turn onto 8th. Penn Station. AMC Loews. McDonald’s. Starbucks. 

Sharp left onto 35th. Past 9th. Right on 10th. 

Up and up and up--36th, 37th, 38th, 39th. Past the Interstate. Past Manhattan Plaza. Up and up and up to 46th, 47th, past Hell’s Kitchen Park, past 48th, past hundreds of shops, people, street signs. Margo tests the limits of these motorcycles as they approach the Upper West Side. Tenth becomes Amsterdam Avenue. They fly past the Met, Juilliard. 72nd. 73rd. 74th. 75th. 76th. 77th. 78th. The wider intersection of 79th and Amsterdam. In and out of traffic. Shooting through traffic lights. 

Utilizing his heightened senses and reflexes commands every ounce of Jensen’s focus. 

It feels like listening to music note by note. Listening to Charlie Parker or Louis Armstrong at half speed. Tasting individual notes with feverish clarity. Every subtlety in the street, he catches and pieces together. He modifies the angle of the motorcycle taking into consideration his weight and Jared’s, traffic around them, the condition of the street, the presence of  pedestrians. 

Breakneck left onto 91st.

Past Broadway. West End. And finally.

Riverside Drive.

Jensen tries to ease to a gradual stop, near the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument. He fears that the ride was too much for his human passenger and expects Jared to either scream or throw up. 

Instead, Jared lifts off his helmet--his hair a mess--and laughs. “Let’s do that again?!”

Prying Jared off the motorcycle proves somewhat challenging; Jared stumbles for the first few steps but insists on walking unassisted. He pulls a comb out of his back pocket, bandana still visible, and attempts to fix his hair while walking towards the monument.

Margo and Chel wait for Jensen’s lead.

The lack of a heartbeat similar to theirs troubles the three of them. Are they too late?

“Hey,” Jared murmurs and tugs on the sleeve of Jensen’s suit. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“That’s called nausea,” Jensen whispers. 

Jared punches Jensen in the shoulder. “No, smart ass. I mean… I just… got this not so great feeling in my gut about being here. Y’all gotta feel it too, right?” 

“In a way,” Chel responds, keeping her voice low. “It is odd. For one so old, I can’t detect their scent or heartbeat or physical presence.” 

“They know to meet at the monument.” Jensen looks around. “It’s where we would always meet. It is the most logical place in this park.” 

“I don’t know much about this city,” Jared says, hands in his pockets, “but look around, dude. It’s not that late. There should be people. I don’t see any regular, non-Nosf… people. We got zilch. Nada. Nothing. Not even some yuppie late night jogger listening to NPR on their iPhone.”

The observation is not without some merit. It isn’t that late.

“No one move,” Margo commands, her voice quiet and low. “Do not…” 

Silence plays with precision all around them. 

Rei walks out of the monument, dressed in a trim, black suit. They observe those around Jensen for only a brief second. Their eyes focus on Jensen himself. Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. 

“I’m sorry, dear friend,” they say. “I do apologize.” 

Four others--all from different races, bloodlines, families--walk out of the monument, armed and aiming directly at Margo, Chel, and Jared. Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage all come at a cost. It takes strength, judgement, and the desire to pursue truth and freedom. Some soldiers have it. Others don’t. 

Only cowards ambush.

Bullets would slow Margo and Chel down, but they would avoid the worst of the fire. One among them would not fare well. 

Jared keeps his eyes on Rei, hands held up. 

“Follow me.” Rei extends a hand to Jensen. “And I will not have your head harmed… again.”

Guilt is a natural part of the human condition. It is also a natural part of the inhuman condition. Jensen has fought guilt all his life, both old and new, handling it roughly, torturing it to make it speak the truth about situations and himself. Sometimes, it’s guilt that keeps Jensen grounded to humanity. 

But there’s only so far guilt can take anyone. He’s had to form his own values and ideas free from guilt. 

“Don’t hurt anyone,” Jensen replies, also placing his hands up. “We are unarmed and mean no harm. I will go.” 

It’s those who can understand, accept, and work through guilt that survive centuries. Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. 

Jared moves, faster than he has ever moved. He reaches inside his coat, takes out the flare gun, and without a moment of delay--fires.

The Superman reference makes more sense in this moment. Throughout one lifetime, hundreds of people will press their opinions onto others--telling others how to feel and think. For most people, they are satisfied allowing others to think and decide for them. Jared thinks and decides for himself.

One thousand feet in the air, seconds after being fired, the flare explodes with a loud bang. 

Margo and Chel act--taking on the group of four. 

Jensen immediately moves to cover Jared. The combination of smoke, light, and noise creates a hurricane of confusion and desperation. Jensen can hear sirens not too far off, people moving towards the flare, wondering what happened, coming over to investigate. Rei shouts for someone to grab Jared and evacuate. Right after, he vividly hears the crunch of Chel’s throat from underneath a steel-toed boot. 

When the smoke clears, Jensen remains in Riverside Park. 

Chel lies on the ground, seizing, struggling with her injury. Margo kneels beside her and looks to Jensen for assistance. Jensen holds Chel down while Margo tends to the injury. Chel’s body feels cold.

Jensen looks up, expecting Jared nearby.

On the lawn, ten feet away, Jensen spots only a houndstooth bandana. 


	25. Chapter 25

 

Violence of action requires the unrestricted use of speed, strength, surprise, and aggression.

Fighting is nothing without complete commitment to action. This was drilled into Jensen during basic training. Don’t be afraid to hit first. And when you do, hit hard. Fighting should occur because it is the best and only option. Assess the situation. Be aware of the danger. Follow instincts. Pull the damn trigger or connect the first hit. 

Protect your face.

Stay on your feet and keep moving.

Hit hard.

Haul ass. 

He who has a why to live can bear almost any how. It’s a good Nietzsche quote. 

Margo rips open her wrist so that Chel can drink. Her movements precise, Margo keeps the spray of blood steady, and opens it again before it heals. Just as police arrive on the scene, the three of them leave, on foot. Margo carries Chel on her back. Slipping away from law enforcement proves easy. At least they have one thing going for them tonight.

Ducking into an alley off of West End, Ama steps out of the shadows.

“This is a fine way of meeting,” Ama sighs, shaking his head. “Jensen, what of our discussion?”

Jensen helps Margo with Chel, whose neck is bruised and likely to stay that way for now. Still, the delicate bones and muscles there have improved. She is vulnerable like this. That is difficult to process. They go so long being at the top of the food chain. 

It seems strange to be reminded of their weaknesses in the form of crushed throats and bandanas.

“I decided to think for myself and disagree,” Jensen snaps, taking off layers of clothing, down to his shirt, in order to make a pillow for Chel. “And I…” His hands shake. Chel feels like ice. “I thought Rei was in trouble. I had no idea.”

Trust no one.

Keep the human close.

He’d failed both his Master and Jared, plus his team. Margo whispers to Chel in Russian, knelt down, one hand in Chel’s hair. Chel’s eyes flutter and struggle to find focus or clarity. Ama walks over.

“You were spot on,” Ama murmurs. “We are not infallible. Allow me to be of some assistance.”

The longer an ancient survives, the more reclusive they seem to become. 

Ama places his left hand over Chel’s throat. He bites his right wrist and allows a gentle trickle to fall into Chel’s mouth. The puncture heals quick. Ama exhales and stands up. He’s worn all black tonight. 

Chel gasps and reaches out for Margo, who helps her sit up. 

Assured of Chel’s stable condition, Jensen moves towards his Master. “Time is of the essence. Wasted minutes could mean wasted lives. I can do this with or without you, Ama.” It is the Natural Order for fledglings to follow their Master’s teachings and commands. Masters and ancients carry with them the light necessary to endure darkness. 

Making everything right requires breaking that Order.

“Which would you prefer?” Ama poses this question with care. This is the single individual who plucked Jensen from the beach--that shoreline of foam, blood, and guts--and presented him with as many centuries as he pleases to live. 

Jensen answers with the honesty owed to Ama. “With.” 

Ama nods. “Then we will require backup.”

 

Assembling backup and organizing a plan of action demands more than the four hours of nighttime at their disposal. It is the logical choice, he knows that, but it pains him nonetheless. 

Ama convinces him to return to the NoMad with Margo and additional guards. 

Jensen spends time with Chel and Margo in Chel’s suite before the pull of dawn forces him to retire.

The what-ifs haunt Jensen in the suite. Jared had laid out his clothes on one of the lounges, neatly organized and folded. Jensen sits down on the lounge, next to the clothes, and allows himself to feel the numbing silence of Jared’s absence. The deeper he submerges himself in the lack of conversation, the more shallow his breathing. Muscles all over his body tense. This could be an especially vivid ghost story.

He struggles against dawn. 

How can he sleep at a time like this? 

“One day, I hope you’ll ride me like that motorcycle.” Jared sits on the coffee table and nudges Jensen’s foot with his own. “I’ll even cut you a good deal.” 

“I’m dreaming,” Jensen says, mumbling into his chest. “You’re not real.”

Jared takes out the tie holding his hair back. He shoots the tie over and hits Jensen in the chest. “Score, ten points for me. You’re right though, I’m not real here. But I’m real where they’ve got me. And that’s why I’m visiting you during sleepy time.”

Jensen takes the hair tie and runs his thumb over it. He sits up and meets Jared eye to eye. 

“Where do they have you?”

With a smile, Jared shrugs. “Oh, you know, at the Ritz.”

“Jared.”

“Hey, let me crack some jokes. It’s all I got right now.” 

“Fine,” Jensen sighs. “Just tell me what you know.”

“It’s not that easy. I have to deliver this message in a certain order. And I don’t think I gotta tell you that this visitation is being recorded for quality assurance purposes.” 

“I figured. Are you safe?” 

Jared looks away. “Let’s not talk about that part. Besides, there’s nothing you can do about it now.”

His resolve crumbles. Jensen reaches out and takes Jared’s hands in his own. “Tell me what you can.”

Swiping his thumbs over Jensen’s hands, Jared gives them a squeeze. “This feels nice,” he admits, his voice quiet. “Remind me to make you do this more often. Y’know… not in your dreams.” He takes a deep breath and separates their hands. “If I give you an address, you think you’ll remember it when you wake up?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Man, if anyone told me something in a dream, the hell I’d remember it later.”

“Yes, well, I’m often surprised you remember how to behave in public.”

Jared laughs, dimples flashing. “What a sick burn! Get me some ice!” 

“Tell me the address,” Jensen says, his voice more desperate than he’d like it to sound. 

“Right. But… uh… you need to come alone. I really wanna make a joke about that, but I think you know what I mean.” 

It’s a trap--plain and simple. “Yes.” 

“Great.” Jared claps his hands with feigned enthusiasm.. “So there’s that. Oh, and you know, all the fine print that if you don’t come alone, I’ll be tortured and possibly killed, yadda yadda yadda. But let me tell you one thing--these guys? Between me and you, not that smart.”

Jensen knows he should say something here to lighten the mood and reassure Jared, but his mind is already working out the details of a plan. Actually, his mind is frantically trying to grasp at the straws of a plan. He--as well as his resources--is at a disadvantage in almost every way. 

“Can I tell you something?” Jared pokes Jensen in the knee. 

“Yes, of course.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with this whole schtick.”

“I’m listening, Jared.”

“Okay.” Jared fidgets. His hair spills over his shoulders. “Remember how I told you that I hid inside that rack of clothes when I was a kid?”

“I remember.”

Jared pats Jensen’s knee. “Well, my mom never called the police. She left me there. On purpose.” A small smile. A quick shrug. “It’s not WWII, but everyone’s gotta have a tragic backstory, right?”

Not long ago, Jensen was fretting over a new hat. 

He was in London, taking his time, chatting and conversing with people about the best year for cabernet sauvignon or the most skilled tailors in St. James. And before that, he spent his time with Eustice, roaming through Martha’s Vineyard, discussing politics and Kant. 

This is infinitely better.

“You did not deserve that,” Jensen answers. He takes Jared’s hands once more. “I don’t know how you survived, but I am glad you are here.”

A genuine smile breaks out. “Well, shucks, dip me in honey and toss me to the lesbians--you  _ are _ capable of emotions.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Alright, alright. Fair enough. Look, I got like this super sad song I was told to sing. It’s not enough that they’re running gruesome government experiments on y’all and torturing me for information--they gotta ask for a whole song and dance number too.”

Jensen tries to respond--obtain more information--but Jared stands up and shakes his head no. 

“I just want you to know that I like Vera’s version,” Jared mumbles. “But I dig Frank’s more.” 

Jensen manages one question. “How do you even know Vera Lynn?” 

Jared runs a hand through his hair and laughs. “My grandfather was in WWII. He listened to her stuff all the time at home, said it reminded him of those days. But he got sent to Japan. Don’t think you’d know him.”

“No,” Jensen whispers. “I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t look so bummed, Jen. My singing isn’t  _ that _ bad.”

He should respond with something light, but it isn’t in him now. Jared takes the cue and pulls Jensen off the lounge. They stand, face to face, Jared’s fingers playing with the buttons on Jensen’s shirt. He starts singing, rich, even, and tempered. 

“Now is the hour when we must say goodbye. And each hour I’ll miss you, far across the sea. While I’m away, please remember me. Some day I’ll sail across the seas back to you.” Confident hands smooth out wrinkles in fabric. “It’s not goodbye, it’s just a sweet adieu. Some day, I’ll sail across the seas home to you.” 

No one can sing this body of music with such skill if they didn’t possess, at the deepest level, a predisposition to tenderness. 

Jensen brings Jared’s hands to his lips. He plants a kiss on each hand before they part.

“This is not goodbye,” Jensen repeats. “Not at all.”

Jared nods. He motions towards the bed. “I know. Keep my side of the bed warm.” 

One blink and Jared disappears. 

Jensen wakes up with a start. He stumbles and falls into bed, the sun already up. Seconds before the sun commands him to sleep, he sends out a message to Ama and Margo--do nothing without him. 

He sleeps with Jared’s hair tie on his wrist.


	26. Chapter 26

 

Three thousand reconnaissance missions were launched in the run-up to the invasion of Normandy to take photos of vital locations. Beach landings were chosen over land in order to give advancing troops fewer rivers and canals to cross.

Hitler’s Atlantic Wall posed one of the largest threats. It had been built all along the coast, using the hands of over one hundred thousand workers.

Each country contributed what they could in terms of aid, technology, and strategy. There was a swimming tank, a flame throwing tank, and collapsible motorbikes. Jensen participated in two reconnaissance missions and brought back pictures of their targeted terrain and landing. The night before, he was urged to sleep, he would need the rest. None of the lads he was with slept more than a few hours. The eyes of the world were upon them.

Seven million pounds of bombs were dropped that day.

Penicillin was new. Condoms were issued to cover the ends of their rifles to keep them dry. The Germans set up concrete, wooden stakes, mines, anti-tank obstacles, barbed wire, and booby traps.

Allied forces failed to capture the city of Caen.

But by the end of the first brutal day, more than one hundred and fifty thousand men had landed. All of their efforts were made possible by those seven values: loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage.

Jensen works with General Kamau, an elder from Kenya and a highly experienced, decorated man of war. They waste no time in planning and assembling what they know. Of course this is a trap. They assign concealment of support teams to Ama and Lily, an elder from New Zealand. With as many blueprints of the site that they can find, General Kamau and Jensen develop strategy, invasion, and, if needed, evacuation.

Intelligence from across the country reports at least twenty-five missing individuals, all from different backgrounds, bloodlines, and families. The focus has been on collecting and trapping elders--individuals who can claim more than five centuries of new life--or those with access to elders.

Each of the major bloodlines and families brings together resources and offers assistance, whether through abilities, powers, or bodies.

It seems inspiring. It should be inspiring. However, Jensen fears they may be too late.

Even if they do arrive in time, even if they have the power and abilities of ancients, they still have no reliable intelligence on the extent of this operation. No real information on why this is happening, what part Rei had in it and their reach, and whether or not there are other humans being held captive. The list of those missing seems to defy a pattern, which means individuals like Tyman were chosen, in part, at random. Questions mount as time races.

The provided address takes Jensen into the underbelly of New York, into hidden tunnels and underground spaces.

Miles of tunnels exist directly beneath the feet of millions. Concealed and inaccessible to most, access tunnels and drainage pipes serve as streets and sidewalks.

Jensen starts at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

General Kamau runs the operation, communicating through telepathy. Due to his age and experience, his messages come through clear. Jensen did not promise lengthy messages in reply; his focus must be held in other places.

Jagged concrete, crumbling brick, and the sounds and smells of sewer systems greet Jensen. Modern sensibility allows electricity in the crypt, however, it only goes so far. When the light runs out, Jensen uses a flashlight to navigate. A series of twists and turns and tight spaces leads Jensen into an abandoned stretch of freight train tracks. Remnants of old caution signs hang from the walls, their messages distorted by water, time, and rust. Leftovers from shantytowns--tents, blankets, makeshift shelters--billow from a breeze of unknown origin.

Light from the city above has no hope of reaching these places.

Jensen pushes forward. What is concrete to him? What is darkness? Nothing. Concrete can be stood on and darkness can be used to his advantage. Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage.

He dressed all in black. In combat gear. Complete with helmet and gun.

This feels familiar, and he could use some familiarity right now.

Others move into position. General Kamau sends out orders--clear, precise, and timely.

Half a mile from the address that was given to Jensen, he hears a human heartbeat. He smells human blood. Blood like liquid cinnamon. Spicy, fiery, tart.  

Jared’s blood.

Jensen realizes that the original plan was to capture him. When they saw Jared at the Monument, the plan evolved. Capture the vulnerable human and use him as bait. Jensen and the individuals helping--they are all walking onto Omaha Beach.

A syncopated drumbeat and a low-register, single-note guitar sound out. These are introductions.

The tunnels widen. Train tracks dip. Graffiti becomes more and more fragmented. A plastic bag struggles, caught in the barbed wire along the path Jensen walks. Mutilated tents lean, twist, and slump against the tunnel walls. The sound of the ocean is not too far off.

With Jensen less than a quarter mile away, Jared begins to sing, his voice rough, pained, and low.

“They’re gonna clean up your looks, with all the lies in the books to make a citizen out of you.” He groans, gasps in pain, twists around in the shackles by which he’s bound. “Because they sleep with a gun, and keep an eye on you son, so they can watch all the things you do.”

General Kamau orders Jensen to reduce his speed.

Jensen’s heart engineers a rhythm similar to the beat of recorded drums filtered through the tunnel.

Coming up on a wide curve, Jensen crouches down and approaches underneath the cover of concrete shadows. Jared sits, chained to a microphone stand. He is nothing like how he appeared this morning. His skin looks like porcelain and salt--pale and sick. Deep, open wounds mar his skin. Bruises extend from his face to his torso. The bruises under his eyes look like heavy eyeliner. They’ve dressed him in a white, half-buttoned shirt, black jeans, half his piercings intact, and left him without shoes.

Bite marks line his wrists and exposed neck.

They’ve fed on him.

The General commands Jensen to stay still. Do not move. Others are sent into their final positions.

Jared falters with his next line of song. His chest struggles to rise and fall, his breathing labored. The fight to stay conscious seems overwhelming. It’s possible he’s been drugged. It’s possible he’s lost a great deal of blood. Something seems to distract Jared, or at least, catch his attention. His head lolls and hair covers his eyes.

His voice picks up volume.

“Because the drugs never work, they’re gonna give you a smirk…” He gasps for breath, words slurred, wheezing. “They got methods of keeping you clean. They’re gonna rip off your head, your aspirations to shreds… Another cog in the murder machine.”

The music’s tempo picks up. Lights flood the space, causing Jensen’s eyes to narrow. He ducks back into darkness, scrambling to avoid being seen.

Jail cells have been carved out of concrete, steel reinforcements, pipes, and tracks. Mangled, bloated bodies hang from chains attached to walls, ceilings, or floors. Bodies like ripe eggplants lie motionless, tubes, wires, electrodes sewn, stuck, or embedded. Instead of bullets or shrapnel, Jensen witnesses the jagged contours of syringes, nails, and broken pieces of wooden crosses.

A clove of garlic bobs above every cell--an affront, an insult, a joke, salt in the wound.

They are looking for methods of destruction.

Jensen has brought destruction.

Elders use their abilities to cover and conceal Jensen’s heartbeat and the scent of his blood--plus all their operatives. Those with psychic abilities focus to cloak their minds and shut out others who might be listening to General Kamau’s messages. Codes form utilizing pieces of dead or ancient languages. Latin. Greek. Macedonian. Persian. Babylonian. Egyptian. Aztec. The extent of this dungeon becomes known.

Three miles of prisoners.

Most of them young, inexperienced, helpless, and had been missing for months. Pieces of information come together. General Kamau directs elders with the ability to control shadows and teleport to stand by, at the ready. Rei steps out from behind the makeshift stage. They wait, smiling, ignoring Jared’s raspy insults and curses.

The General issues Jensen the all clear.

There is no time for questions. None of it matters. The lives they can salvage matter. Betrayal tastes bitter, but what is that in the grand scheme of things? Just like guilt. It must be swallowed. Time must move on. Nazis thought they were untouchable. They thought they had the Allies permanently and perpetually outnumbered, outmanned, and out planned.

Incineration. Trauma to the head and neck. Decapitation. Draining every drop of blood.

Jensen just has to get close enough.

He steps out of his hiding place and approaches Rei, his walk steady, almost casual.

“He reminds me of Marty,” Rei proclaims, holding Jared’s chin in their grip. “Like a little jukebox. My own songbird. Though, this one is much less cooperative.”

Struggling, Jared snarls and bites at Rei’s hand. Rei yanks the chain around Jared’s neck. “Bad! Bad little jail bird! See? Much less cooperative. But the perfect bait.”

“You can let him go.” Jensen stops, ten feet from Rei and Jared. “And we can forget this.”

“Please. This isn’t my operation. I just bring in the customers. Go ahead. Try to kill me, dearest friend. That won’t accomplish anything. You’re an ant. A pawn. A throwaway soldier on some pathetic beach fighting for ideals that don’t even exist, for a country that turned you into chum.”

Jensen struggles against the psychic feeling of water all around. Waves of foam, water, and blood. Choking him. Sand pulling him down. Shrapnel. The men next to him screaming in horror at the realities of their conditions. Intestines, muscles, nerves, and organs all exposed to the overcast sky on a shoreline in France.

How awful. How terrible.

How he moves closer and closer, inch by inch, closer to his nightmares and closer to Rei. Almost. Almost there.

Desperate, Jared starts singing and shouting. “They could care less as long as someone will bleed!” Rei smacks him and looks to Jensen for a reaction. Jared persists. “The boys and girls in the clique, the awful names that they stick. You’re never gonna fit in much kid.” Another smack, this one harder. Jared spits blood. He pants and works up enough strength to make eye contact with Jensen. He growls out, “What you got under your shirt will make ‘em pay for the things that they did…”

Rei takes the microphone stand and strikes it across Jared’s shins.

It is in these few seconds of petty distraction that the General blasts through the psychic protection cast over the tunnel and issues his final command: charge.

Assistance appears at every other jail cell. Guards, others like Rei, emerge from deeper in the tunnel, armed with smoke bombs. Confusion and chaos collide with their organized plans. Rescue cannot be done with artillery. It cannot be done with swords. All these things could potentially be turned against them--or worse, the prisoners. Everything has to be done and done quickly.

Two carotid arteries feed blood to the brain. The windpipe is the airway for breathing. The spinal cord controls all motor skills. Make every blow count. The only rule in fighting is to live.

Jensen strikes Rei in the throat. His fist connects.

But it isn’t enough.

Shrieking, Rei sends Jensen flying, hurtling until he hits the bars of a jail cell. Before Jensen can recover, Rei pins him down with an unseen force, and tilts his neck to the right, then swings it to the left. Right. Left. Right. Left. They mean to snap Jensen’s neck. Not fatal. But debilitating. Excruciating.

Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage.

Jared grabs the microphone stand and points it at an open wound on his torso. He threatens. He swears. He promises.

In these precious seconds, Jensen takes control.

He never made it up the beach, but not for lack of trying. Punch. Jab. Cross. Hook. Uppercut. Palm strike. One after the other. Punch. Jab. Cross. Hook. Uppercut. Palm strike. Chokehold. He focuses the full force of his attack on the face and neck--all for those arteries, that windpipe, that spinal cord. His fists connect with bone and muscle and cartilage. Possessed, he breaks out into series of punches that leave Rei gasping, gasping, gasping--he isn’t finished. There’s nowhere to go. No psychic powers to rely on. Just the beating of knuckles against flesh.

Protect your face.

Stay on your feet and keep moving.

Hit hard.

Punch, kick, elbow, gouge, bite, rip, crush.

The only rule in fighting is to live.

Fingernails dig into Jensen’s throat. Blood pools. He shouts and tries to throw Rei’s hands off his neck. They dig deeper, screaming, managing to move their right hand near Jensen’s left eye. Sharpened, Rei’s thumbnail presses down. He has to throw them off. Throw them off or…

Ama appears, directly behind Rei.

And directly behind him, Chel charges.She lifts Margo’s blade above her head and swings.

The tip of the blade scrapes against Jensen’s chin.

Chel slices through Rei’s neck in one clean swipe. Blood sprays. The body collapses, twitching and sick. The head rolls.

Loyalty, duty--

“No time for reflection,” Ama shouts, grabbing Jensen’s hand.

Time to haul ass. The General begins evacuation. Those who could be saved have been brought to the surface. Those who could not will be left so their bodies will never be tampered with again. But that means incineration. In thirty seconds, the tunnel will become a cave of fire.

Ama breaks the chains attached to Jared’s neck, wrists, and ankles.

The temperature spikes.

Jared holds onto Jensen, slumped against him, injured and dying. He thumps Jensen’s chest and gives him a weak thumbs up. He coughs, trying to speak.

Jensen leans in to hear the message.

“Yo,” Jared wheezes, resting his head against Jensen’s shoulder. “It’s a magical world, Nosferatu, old buddy. Let’s go explorin’.”

Ama removes the three of them...

And fire overcomes the tunnel.

 


	27. Chapter 27

 

At four in the morning, Jensen stands on the corner of 7th and Alvarado, near the appropriate door.

He inhales the scent of hand-cut pastrami, coleslaw, Russian dressing, Swiss cheese, and double-baked rye bread.

Tourists typically visit Langer’s right after they’ve finished gawking at the home Natalie Wood purchased before she drowned, or the Playboy Mansion, or the gravesite of Johnny Ramone. Los Angeles has an obsession with the deceased. For fifty dollars, some retired high school history teacher will cart around tourists and locals alike in a black bus and shuttle people to different celebrity graves. After they take pictures of the dearly departed, they stop over for pastrami sandwiches.

Once they settle in at their tables, the evening tour groups talk about the figure that sits near a secluded, shady spot at the Westwood Village Memorial Park Cemetery. Smaller palms provide the shade, while carefully selected flowers perfume the air.

This figure, they hear from others who have taken the tour before, appears every Saturday after sunset for a solitary vigil.

Gonzales opens the door.

He eyes Jensen. “Two sandwiches?”

“No,” Jensen answers, handing over cash. “Just one, please.”

Los Angeles locals will tell anyone who listens that the best view of the Hollywood sign is from the cemeteries. People can snap pictures of it and their favorite dead celebrities before visiting Rodeo Drive for expensive hats.

William sent over a black derby last week. Black seemed appropriate.

It’s all Jared wears.

“Did you ask for extra sauerkraut? And dressing? And cheese?” Jared bumps their shoulders together. “Nothing says let’s get it on back at the hotel like extra sauerkraut on pastrami. Am I right, or am I right?”

Jensen rolls his eyes.

“I did no such thing,” he grumbles back. “It’s not your breath I fear.”

Jared laughs and shrugs. “Better out than in. That’s how you know the old intestines are hard at work.”

Every Saturday evening, Jared and Jensen visit Tyman’s plot. Jensen stays out of sight, on guard, and ready to intervene if any of the tourists get nosy.

There wasn’t a body to recover.

But after multiple human blood transfusions, a week in the ICU, and two weeks of physical therapy, Jared decided that there are worse things in the world than an empty burial plot. He bought it with his cut of ten thousand dollars and pays the cemetery staff extra to keep the grave neat, tidy, and watered.

Jared thinks Tyman would get a kick out of being buried somewhat near Rodney Dangerfield.

Gonzales shoves open the door and pauses for a second, like he’s seen a ghost. His eyes narrow in a suspicious glare towards Jared. “Huh. I thought you were dead.”

“Dude,” Jared sighs. “Why does everyone keep saying that? Details of my death were greatly exaggerated. I’m not even part of the god damn undead. Can I get an extra side of dressing, pretty please?”

Without ceremony, Jared pops open the styrofoam container housing his precious pastrami sandwich.

“Do you ever think,” Jensen mentions, “that maybe your request to join the undead was withdrawn because of your eating habits? They’re absolutely terrible.”

Cheeks stuffed with sandwich, Jared waves Jensen off.

Side by side, they walk back to the curb and sit.

Somehow, Jared finishes chewing long enough to speak.

“I like my hat,” Jared mumbles. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “It has a nice old man who can’t get it up vibe to it.”

“Your childish comments won’t change my mind about it. William did an excellent job.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure, sure. I suppose I can try wearing it.”

“Use a napkin.”

“Can’t. Too busy. Eating.”

“You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“Hey--you survive being tortured by a group of deranged, bat-shit crazy assholes performing government experiments on innocent bystanders. And! Being forced to perform for free! I’m surprised I can still function like a productive member of society.”

“Peddle your excuses elsewhere.”

“How ‘bout I sing to you instead? That always calms down your uptight ass.”

Jensen adjusts Jared’s hat. “If that’s the best you can do, I suppose that sounds acceptable.”

Jared finishes his sandwich in record time. Licking his fingers, leaning back, Jared looks out at the intersection of 7th and Alvarado. His eyes soon take in the rest of Los Angeles on the cusp of sunrise.

“My mama done tol’ me.” He sings at a volume exclusively for Jensen. “When I was in pigtails. My mama done tol’ me--son, a man’s gonna sweet-talk and give you the big eyes.” He nudges Jensen’s foot with his own. “But when the sweet-talking’s done, a man is a two-face, a worrisome thing.”

Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage.   

“Now the rain’s a-fallin’. Hear the train a-callin’, whoo-ee.”

Ama apologized to Jensen not too long after arriving at Mount Sinai Hospital. If Jensen wanted to invite Jared to the gardens in Evora, Ama would welcome him--permanently. Since then, Jensen has allowed the ancients and elders to take over the incident underneath the streets of New York City. Margo and Chel keep him supplied with regular updates. He’ll be there if and when they need him.

There’s always time.

It’s not that Jensen withheld the offer from Jared. He extended it, in the hospital, more than once.

“The evenin’ breeze’ll start the trees to cryin’. And the moon’ll hide its light. From Natchez to Mobile. From Memphis to St. Joe.” Jared leans against Jensen’s shoulder. “C’mon, you know the rest.”

Jared asked for time to think about being made. Or perhaps, more time to live before being made.

Their voices mingle together on a comfortable Los Angeles breeze--flirtatious, drowsy, and languidly melodic. “I been in some big towns and heard me some big talk. But there is one thing I know. A man’s a two-face, a worrisome thing who’ll leave you to sing the blues in the night.”

Jensen senses the power in the starting point and finish line of their voices.

This is a hot art form.

Like blues in the night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE HUGE HUGE thanks to my artist and betas. y'all have been so wonderfully kind and thanks for all your efforts and work. this was not an easy BB to finish for me this year. i really struggled. i hope y'all enjoy it. 
> 
> i'll put together a soundtrack shortly and post it in a separate chapter. :) 
> 
> thanks to "How to Listen to Jazz" by Ted Gioia for help describing sound and music. it's a great book. 
> 
> also, please be sure to leave comments here or at my artists' page about her amazing work: http://beelikej.livejournal.com/520312.html


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